How to Date a Younger Man
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
About the Book
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
What to Read Next
Acknowledgments
Get Two Free Books
Follow Kendall
Other Books by Kendall Ryan
How to Date a Younger Man
Copyright © 2020 Kendall Ryan
Developmental Editing by Rachel Brookes
Copy Editing by Pam Berehulke
Cover Design and Formatting by Uplifting Author Services
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Tips for Surviving a Fling with a Sexy Younger Man
First, you’d think as a thirty-something-year-old woman, I’d be immune to Griffin’s flirty comments and six-pack abs. You’d think that his carefree playboy attitude, or the fact that he’s still finishing grad school, would deter me.
You’d be wrong.
If you accidentally bang your best friend’s younger brother, here are a few important tips . . .
One: Do not brag to your friend about how well-endowed her brother is.
Two: Do not go back for seconds (or thirds).
Three: Do not let him see your muffin top or jiggly behind. And definitely don’t let him feed you cookies in bed. Cookies are bad. Remember that.
Four: Act like a damn grown-up and apologize for riding him like a bull at the rodeo. And do not flirt with him when he laughs at said apology.
Five: This one is crucial, so pay attention.
Do not, under any circumstances, fall in love with him.
1
* * *
GRIFFIN
Four years ago
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself.
After double-checking the address one last time, I haul the massage table through the wide front doors of the chrome-and-glass building downtown. Anderson and Associates is a lucrative law firm and as I ride the elevator up to the fifteenth floor, I pray to God that I’m not going to be rubbing down some wart-covered, age-spotted, pasty old bastard for the next ninety minutes.
I shudder at the thought. It wouldn’t be the first time though because it kind of comes with the territory of being a massage therapist. You just never know who you’re going to meet.
I finished my undergrad degree in business last year, but since I have no idea what I want to do with my life, I decided to take a year off to figure out my path. And since I still needed to make money, I’d gotten a massage therapist license. I’ve always been good at talking to people, making them comfortable and feeling at ease. I guess working with my hands is just an extension of that talent.
But it’s certainly not my forever. I’m set to start grad school in the fall and I’ll be studying architecture, which will be quite a departure from rubbing elderly people down with lavender-scented oil daily. But, whatever, the money’s been good and has lessened the stress of my finances.
I stop in front of a desk inside the office and feel the young receptionist’s appreciative gaze drift over my broad shoulders and muscular pecs visible under my black T-shirt.
“Hi. I’m here for an appointment with . . .” I glance down at the details on my phone. “Mr. Layne Anderson.”
“Miss Anderson,” the receptionist says, correcting me. “And yes, right this way. We’ve been expecting you.”
She rises to her feet and escorts me down the hall toward a corner office. Inside, a woman with long dark hair sits behind a huge glass-topped desk, her gaze glued to the screen of her laptop and her fingers flying over the keyboard.
The receptionist knocks on the door frame. “Layne?”
The woman looks up, and her gaze lands on mine.
A pulse of excitement flickers through me. Damn, she’s sexy as hell. Not very professional, I know, but it’s the first thought that pops into my head. I’d expected a man because of her name—Layne, pronounced as Lane.
I guess there’s a reason MILF porn is the most popular search on the internet. And my client this afternoon? She’s the living, breathing proof of why those fantasies exist. She’s polished and poised. Exquisitely beautiful and sure of herself in a way that most twenty-somethings aren’t. Myself included.
“Can I help you?” she asks, quickly appraising me before sending a curious glance to her assistant.
I wish I could say that I’m straining to imagine what the shape of her body is under that white button-up shirt and tight gray skirt for professional reasons. Usually, a quick assessment is needed—how is their posture, are there any visible signs of tension in the shoulders and neck, et cetera. But with the woman’s inquisitive gaze on me, I’ve forgotten my own damn name, let alone why I’m standing in her office.
“Happy birthday, boss.” The receptionist smiles, patting me on the shoulder.
We’re still standing in the doorway of the office, so I take a small step forward, holding up the folded massage table with a half smile.
The woman’s brow furrows in confusion. She has no idea what’s happening.
Inwardly, I grimace. Office massages are sometimes given as gifts between coworkers, but my services have never been a surprise gift before. Because . . . you know, it’s intimate.
Wow. Her assistant has some serious balls.
“Thank you.” She smiles diplomatically and stands up, striding over to us with a sharp click of her heels.
When she outstretches a hand to me, a fantasy of those small, slender hands whispering over my forearms and biceps almost overwhelms me. But her hand slides into mine and doesn’t wander any further.
“Layne Anderson,” she says with a curve of her full red lips.
“Griffin.” I grasp her hand, noting her handshake is firm and strong. A little bolt of electricity zips through me at the contact and I wonder if she felt it too.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the receptionist says. “I’ll forward your calls to voice mail for the next hour, okay?” She moves around the room, closing all the blinds, effectively blocking us off from the eyes of any curious coworkers.
“Wait. I appreciate this, I truly do,” Layne says, her palms up and open. “But I don’t have the time.”
So she’s gathered why I’m here. Thank God. Explaining would have been a first. “Hello, ma’am, it’s time for you to get naked from the waist up and let me stroke you with scented oils. Am I moving too fast?”
“But, Layne—”
“How much did you pay for this, anyway?” Layne plants her hands firmly on her hips.
I would be annoyed—being referred to as this—but I’m too aware of the fact that I’m about to be dismissed. And that can’t happen for two reasons.
Layne’s gaze flicks to me and then back to her employee. She’s making a decision. I hope it’s the right one, because something inside me isn’t ready to go.
“Sorry. Just make the most of it,” the receptionist whispers with exaggerated subservience, and then ducks out of the room.
Their dynamic is fascinating, to say the least. Layne’s employees love her enough to gift her a three-hundred-dollar massage, but they clearly don’t know her very well. I’m still not sure she’s completely on board with this. Luckily, I have no problem getting up close and personal.
The door clicks shut, leaving the two of us alone inside the spacious office, and I swallow, fighting a suddenly dry mouth.
She sighs, almost begrudgingly. “I suppose you won’t let me just fake this whole thing? Lie to my employees and tell them you gave me a life-changing massage?” she asks with a tilt of her head.
Her hair drops over one shoulder, and I find myself thinking, yet again, with the wrong organ.
“It’s entirely up to you,” I say, mirroring her body language in an attempt to make her more comfortable. “I have to say, though, a massage never hurt anyone.”
“Tell that to my in-box,” she says with a smirk. With one final, searing look, she turns her back on me and removes her blazer.
I guess we’re doing this.
“Is there something I need to change into?” she asks, eyeing the small duffel bag slung over my shoulder.
“I’ll put the table together first. It’ll only take five minutes. Then I can either step out while you remove your clothing above the waist and lie down on the table under the sheet, or you can change in the restroom while I handle the minor assembly, and then come out when you’re ready.”
I’m impressed with how professional I sound right now, even though the tingling sensation in my stomach is undoubtedly on a surefire journey toward my groin. If I get a hard-on on the job, I’m going to fire myself.
“Whatever will get this over with sooner,” she grumbles. It’s actually adorable how reluctant she is to be pampered.
Adorable? What’s wrong with me? I should be hella annoyed that this lady is being so difficult. I make the conscious decision to meet her lack of enthusiasm with an equal lack thereof.
“You do you,” I say with a rehearsed shrug and my most flirtatious smirk.
She squints at me in the way my parents did when I first uttered the words that’s what she said in their presence. It’s a mix of confusion with a hint of disbelief.
Way to make yourself look like a douche, man.
Before I can follow up with something, anything, to make up for it, she retreats through a door connecting to a private restroom. Before she closes it behind her, she peeks her head out.
“Five minutes?” she asks, and when I nod, she closes the door behind her.
Damn. I wish I lived a life in which my workplace provided a personal adjoining bathroom to my office. My office is this table, which I yank this way and that until it follows my orders.
Needing something to place my accessories on, I scan the room and spot a small coffee table that will work perfectly. I drag it over to the massage table and unpack my lotions, oils, and portable speaker. I scroll through my phone, select my favorite Chill Vibes playlist, and set the volume on low. The soft music plays pleasantly in the background and in just a few minutes I’m ready for her.
It occurs to me that five minutes was plenty of time for her to undress . . . too much, even. I wonder if she’s standing on the other side of the door, topless and waiting.
My dick twitches in my pants. I take a deep breath, drip some lavender oil on my wrists, and inhale again. I need to calm down if I’m going to do my job well.
The door cracks open a sliver, and she asks, “Are you ready for me?”
My dick full-on throbs at that question. Jesus Christ.
“Yes, I’m facing the far wall. Come lay face down on the table.”
“Yes, sir.”
I can hear her sexy little chuckle from across the room. Focusing on the world outside her window, I desperately try not to seek out the reflection of her naked torso in the glass. Don’t be a fucking pervert, Griff.
“Ready.”
I didn’t even hear her get on the table. She must have taken off her heels. I turn around to find them coupled perfectly by her desk.
Even more perfect is her half-naked body laying on my table. I take a quick moment to take in the sheet bunched up around her hips, the softness of her bare back, and her hair pulled neatly to one side. Layne is wildly outside of my frame of reference and if I’m being honest, she’s completely out of my league.
I approach her naked back like I’m Indiana Jones, and any wrong move could result in flying spears and huge boulders hurtling toward me. But the closer I get, the less nervous I become. I find myself fascinated by the curve of her spine, the little freckles on her shoulders that speckle her otherwise blemish-free skin.
“Can I use oil?” I ask, my voice husky and low.
It’s a standard customer-service question in this line of work, but I feel as awkward as if I’d just asked her if I could finger her. I watch as the fine, pale hairs that trail the length of her back stand up in arousal. Holy shit.
“Yes, please,” she says with a sigh.
She’s finally giving in.
I pour a little lavender oil into my hands and rub them together to create a warm friction.
When my fingers make contact with her back, my mind goes completely blank. I don’t know what comes over me, but I know for a fact that I’m about to give this gorgeous woman the best massage I’ve ever given.
And this time, it’s not about customer service at all.
2
* * *
LAYNE
It’s a quarter to two on a Tuesday afternoon, and for the first time in over a decade, I’m not thinking about my next three cases. I’m not thinking about how to negotiate with a pushy board of directors, or when I can find the time to shove a quick protein-bar down my throat for dinner.
All of the above are far from my realm of thought right now because the only thing on my mind is the twenty-something piece of man candy working his strong, determined hands over my tight, knotted shoulders. And, trust me, there is not one single thing I hate about it.
Ever since I took the leap and opened my own law firm, the team of corporate-law badasses I employ have stuck to pretty generic boss gifts for my birthday. A nice box of chocolates, a case of wine from a local vineyard, or a gift basket filled with artisan crackers and smelly cheeses.
But this year, they apparently decided to think outside the box. And by outside the box, I mean they sent a hottie probably young enough to be my son into the office to rub lavender-scented oil all over my body for the next ninety minutes. As if I didn’t already know they all secretly thought I was an uptight workaholic, now they were hoping to have it rubbed out of me.
I’d be lying if I said my birthday present isn’t delivering. I can’t imagine that he grew up wanting to massage strangers’ bodies for a living, but the way he’s unraveling the knots along my shoulder blades, you’d think it was his God-given calling.
“How’s the pressure? Am I pressing too hard?”
His low, soothing voice barely registers with me, and I simply purr a soft “it’s perfect” in response. He’s been attentive and careful from the moment his hands came into contact with my skin, and it’s only made me more relaxed. In fact, I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time. It’s making me consider adding regular massages into my already jam-packed schedule. I’d definitely find the time if it meant feeling like this.
After massaging my shoulders and neck so well I’m practically drooling and lucid, his hands leave my body for good and I miss the feeling of his fingers immediately.
“Take a few minu
tes to come back to earth, and make sure you drink plenty of water for the rest of the day,” he says, stepping away from the table. He wanders over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows I fought tooth and nail for, overlooking the bustling city below.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to come back yet,” I murmur, only half-aware that I’m thinking out loud.
He chuckles, and the sound is deep and rich. “It’s fine. Take your time.”
I blink open my eyes and see him standing across the room, facing the windows and looking out into the world. He looks comfortable—relaxed even—in my impeccably arranged corner office, which is rare for anyone under the age of thirty. I’ve had a handful of tech kid geniuses in here looking for legal counsel before selling their apps, and they never seem to know what to do with themselves, bouncing around with nervous energy, or sweating through their ill-fitting button-downs. I don’t know if this kid works in the corporate world often, but it’s clear he’s not intimidated by a woman in power and I’ve got to admit, I like that. A lot.
“That was exactly what I needed. Thank you,” I reply, slowly pulling myself together.
The awareness that I’m half naked under this thin white sheet seems to knock some sense into me. Carefully turning over while still keeping myself covered, I swing my legs over the side of the table, holding the sheet up over my chest.
He doesn’t turn around, and I take the opportunity to admire the muscles that fill out his fitted black shirt. Ten years ago, he would have been exactly the kind of guy who would get me in a lot of trouble. The kind of guy you assume wants the same things you do, until you wake up six months later and find yourself wondering why he hasn’t introduced you to his friends yet.
I shake my head, grateful to be past all that twenty-something bullshit. It didn’t come easy, but I can confidently say I feel perfectly complete without a man. I’ve been focused on myself and my career for the past decade, and I’m genuinely proud of where I’m at. But that doesn’t mean I want to be alone forever. It would be nice to have a partner to share this crazy, fast-paced life with, but I haven’t found the right guy yet.