How to Date a Younger Man

by Kendall Ryan

  “I want you so bad right now,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.

  “Griff . . .”

  “As great as that dress looks on you, all I can think about is taking it off.”

  I go weak in the knees, and for a second, I’m worried they might actually buckle. “Not now,” I whisper, slowly regaining my composure.

  “Then when?” His voice is low, seductive.

  After a quick scan of the backyard to be sure no one’s watching us, I turn back around to meet his eyes, my shoulders squared to his broad ones, my breasts nearly touching his chest. “Ten minutes. Meet me in the upstairs bathroom.”

  Before he can respond, I slide past him, finding a confused-looking caterer to direct back to the kitchen. I take one last look at Griffin before walking inside the house and am pleased to find a dumbstruck but definitely turned-on look plastered on his face, only to quickly wash away once someone he knows approaches him to talk.

  Again, as if he can feel me watching, Griffin catches my eye for a moment, his mouth twitching into a half smile as he lifts his chin with a subtle nod.

  My stomach completes its gymnastics routine as I lead the caterer into the kitchen, pointing him in the right direction before grabbing a strawberry from one of the platters and making my way to the front of the house.

  Checking the few rooms nearby to make sure no one will overhear, I walk into the upstairs bathroom. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. My cheeks are rosy, and my eyes are bright.

  The sound of footsteps in the hall makes my heart beat faster, and I swear all the blood in my body goes straight between my legs.

  Griffin steps through the door, closes it quickly behind him, and removes the distance between us in one fluid motion. He takes my face in his hands, then slides them behind my hair and pulls me to him, our mouths meeting with more passion and urgency than they ever have before. The kiss is feverish, frantic even, as the sexual tension that’s been building between us for the past two hours releases all at once.

  He backs me up against the counter and lifts my butt easily onto it, parting my knees so he can situate himself between my legs. He presses against me, already hard and ready, ratcheting up my need for him even more. Making quick work of unbuttoning his pants, I slip a hand inside his waistband, and give his shaft a long, slow pull that makes him growl into my neck.

  “Fuck, Layne,” he whispers, trailing his lips over the delicate skin below my jawline as his hands run up my thighs and take a handful of both ass cheeks.

  He squeezes as I delicately pull his swollen erection out of his pants, sliding my thumb over the tip. He hooks his fingers around the elastic of my panties, pulling them down and over my ankles so they fall to the floor. He produces a condom from his pocket and suits up.

  All at once, he’s inside me, and I gasp out a breath.

  “Yes,” I groan, wrapping my legs around his hips. For a moment, the world stops, and we’re not two friends with a complicated past, and ten years between us, and all that other stupid stuff to worry about. I’m just Layne, and he’s just Griffin. We’re simply us—and it’s so stupidly, wildly, unbelievably right.

  Grabbing his shoulders for support as he thrusts into me, I do my best to hold on, but within minutes, Griffin is driving me toward an intense orgasm. I bite my lip to stifle a moan and hang on for dear life.

  “Fuck, baby. Yes.” He groans when he feels me start to come. A few more steady thrusts and Griffin’s right behind me, following me over the edge with a hoarse groan.

  My limbs wrapped around him, with him still inside me, I plant kisses along his neck as our breathing slowly evens out. He touches my hip, gently withdrawing, and when he pulls away, I already miss the feeling of him between my thighs. I want to stay here, just the two of us, and forget about the real world for a little while longer. But the music outside the door and the sound of distant laughter soon remind me that we have to go out and face it.

  I step into my panties as he zips his fly, and he chuckles, watching my dress bunch up as I pull the lacy fabric over my hips.

  “What? Can you think of a more ladylike way to redress after a mid-party quickie?”

  He shrugs and shuts me up by planting another kiss on my lips, one that lingers long enough to send a tingle between my thighs. Jesus, this man is making me insatiable.

  “I can honestly say I never thought I’d have sex in my parents’ bathroom before,” he says, looking around the room like he’s seeing it for the first time.

  “You might not want to think too hard about that one,” I reply, grabbing a tissue to fix my smudged lipstick.

  “Oh, trust me,” he says, moving behind me. He slides his hands over my hips and presses his body into my back, brushing his lips against the back of my ear. “I’ll be thinking about that for a very long time.”

  I get chills for probably the thousandth time today, a smile spreading across my lips. “You’re gross,” I tease, mock rolling my eyes as I shake my head at his reflection in the mirror.

  He places a kiss on the back of my neck, his hands roaming over my body one last time before letting go. “Guess we should go back out there,” he says reluctantly.

  “You go first. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes so it doesn’t look suspicious.”

  “Damn, who knew you were such a pro at this?” He cocks his head to the side, his eyes twinkling like they do when he teases me.

  “I watch a lot of romcoms.” I shrug. “Now go, before someone sees you leave.”

  He leans back in for one last kiss before quickly slipping out the door and shutting it behind him. I don’t hear him speak to anyone as his footsteps fade away, so it seems like the coast is clear. I purposefully picked this bathroom because it’s tucked far away from the rest of the party, and there’s another guest bathroom closer to the crowd. This may have been my first time hooking up with someone in the middle of an engagement party, but come on, I’m not an idiot.

  I give myself one last look, making certain my makeup looks normal. The flush from the orgasm has mostly faded, so more than anything, it looks like I just reapplied a touch of blush. And my curls were already a little tousled before, so a quick run-through with my fingers is enough to make them look normal.

  With everything in order, I take a deep breath, doing my best to get back into the party mentality. If there’s one thing I can’t do, it’s walk back out there all giddy and not expect my best friend in the entire world to notice.

  Even if that’s exactly how I feel.

  17

  * * *

  GRIFFIN

  When I told Layne that I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about what happened between us at my sister’s engagement party, I wasn’t kidding.

  Last night, I dreamed about the firm press of her hungry lips against mine. This morning, I burned my hand on my coffee, too preoccupied with fantasies of her soft curves against my palms. Later in the day, I broke the tip of my favorite lining pen, remembering the distinct sensation of entering her. To say I’m distracted would be an understatement.

  I pick up my phone to text her, because apparently I’m still the same thirsty fuckboy I was back in college. “Love struck,” Kristen would say. And for once, I don’t think I’d argue with her.

  WYD?

  I click SEND and lean back in my swivel chair in my home office, rocking aimlessly from side to side.

  Without my permission, my brain hurtles me back into memories of that night with Layne. The way that dress . . . was it lace? Whatever, it was fucking gorgeous on her. Then that beautiful smirk on her face that I couldn’t help but kiss, right before I left her in the bathroom. I’ve never taken part in such a well-executed quickie before.

  I chuckle at the thought, my chest warming. Then my phone buzzes with her response.

  I think you just butt texted me.

  I snort. My thumbs fly across the screen of my phone with the ease of a millennial who grew up learning
how to text before learning how to pay a phone bill.

  It’s harder to butt text on a smartphone than you’d think. It’s an abbreviation.

  This time, the response is immediate.

  I’m so old. Would it kill you to type a sentence for the sake of the elderly community?

  I smirk. Layne is a lot funnier than she gives herself credit for.

  Only if u stop calling yourself old. What are you doing on this fine day, Layne?

  My phone buzzes almost instantly with her response.

  I’m at work. Like I am every Monday.

  Okay, I should have guessed that. I deserve the sass she’s dealing. I wonder if she’s having a bad day.

  Can I come visit you?

  I toss my phone back and forth between my ink-stained hands, waiting for Layne to bicker internally with herself before she ultimately decides that she does want me to visit her and improve her Monday. My phone buzzes, and I unlock my phone hurriedly.

  Only if you bring dinner. I’ll be working late tonight.

  I can’t help it . . . I grin. I have the makings for pasta fra diavolo, a meal I’ve been itching to make for someone special for a while now. Considering Layne is the only someone special I’ve had for years, this particular meal is long overdue.

  You got it, beautiful.

  The thin drafting paper on my desk ruffles softly as I breeze my way to the kitchen. I have less than two hours before the end of the workday, the ideal moment for me to show up with piping-hot dinner for her. God, I can’t wait to see her face when I bring a full-on picnic to her office.

  First, I need to double-check that I have all the ingredients. I rummage through my well-stocked cabinets for the necessities: olive oil, basil, oregano, parsley. It’s all here. Maybe I’m still a frat boy in some ways—well, mostly my sense of humor—but I sure as hell don’t have the kitchen of a college kid. I keep my fridge full of fresh ingredients and shop for groceries a couple of times a week.

  I’m relieved to find some remaining cloves of garlic, fresh and fragrant, nestled away in my produce drawer. Deep in the back of my freezer, I find the ropes of Italian sausage I purchased from the local deli last week.

  An hour’s work in the kitchen results in a damn good-looking meal. And the smell . . . well, the heady scent of wine plus the sharp scents of garlic and onion have my mouth watering.

  I pack away the pasta in glass containers, and add a bottle of pinot noir, looking around to see if I’ve forgotten anything. I decide to pick up a warm loaf of Italian bread from the corner bakery, and preemptively pack a stick of butter.

  With about a half hour before the end of the workday, I make my way to the train, dinner arranged neatly in the satchel slung over my shoulder.

  In twenty minutes, I’m back where my fascination with this woman all started, standing at the entrance of the chrome-and-glass building that houses Anderson and Associates. This time, I’m carrying a picnic, not a cumbersome massage table. The moment would only be a perfect full circle if I somehow managed to rub my hands all over Layne’s naked back again.

  Here’s to hoping.

  When I make my way to the front desk, Layne’s assistant, Sabrina, is gathering her coat and purse. She meets my eyes with a smile and gives me permission to enter with a sweep of her arm.

  I tap my knuckles against the door softly before turning the knob. “Room service.”

  Layne is facing her computer, her eyes focused on the screen. She looks stressed, and something inside me clenches.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice hoarse from lack of use, making me wonder if she’s been holed up in her office all day.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” I say, closing the door softly behind me. “You hanging in there?”

  “Yeah,” she grumbles, stretching her arms over head. “I’ve been buried in contracts and riders all day. I think you’re the first person I’ve talked to.”

  “Well, I’m honored.” I smirk, setting the hefty satchel on the coffee table where I once arranged my speaker and massage lotions.

  Layne raises her eyebrows, sizing up the bag of mysteries with hungry, glazed eyes. “What did you bring me?”

  “Guess,” I say.

  I walk around her desk to stand behind her, placing my hands on her slim shoulders. My thumbs dig into the tense muscles I find there, bunched up around her shoulder blades.

  Layne’s head drops forward with a moan. “I don’t have the energy to guess,” she murmurs, obviously loving every second of this impromptu massage.

  When I find a particularly tender spot, I feel her melt beneath my fingertips.

  “Griff . . .”

  I play these games with her for a myriad of reasons, but mostly just to prolong the time she gives me.

  Layne’s stomach growls loudly.

  Okay, it’s time. I drop a kiss on the back of her neck, releasing her shoulders. Her disappointment is tangible, but I know how hungry she is.

  One by one, I unpack the plates and silverware, and carefully unwrap the wineglasses that I secured with cloth napkins. With a hiss, the lid slides off the container of carb-loaded, flavorful pasta, and Layne sucks in a breath.

  “That smells amazing,” she says, rising from her desk to join me at the coffee table. She tucks her legs underneath her next to me on the floor. Her fingers rest on my bicep absentmindedly, and the touch sends shock waves through my arm and straight to my groin.

  Fantasies of the other day flash through my mind in a heat wave that flushes my face. Instead of acting on them, however, I spoon heaps of pasta fra diavolo onto her plate, garnishing the dish with a warm slice of bread. Layne waits for me to make my own plate, but I can tell she can’t wait to dig in. Incapable of relaxing, she busies herself with the corkscrew, pouring a full glass for me and half a glass for herself.

  Making the mental choice not to fight her on that one, I raise my glass to hers. “To a hard day’s work.”

  “To a hard day’s work that isn’t done yet,” she says with a wry smile, clinking her glass against mine. She takes a sip, fork already in hand.

  Watching Layne eat is definitely one of my favorite pastimes. I love how her lips wrap around a fork or a spoon, how her eyelids flutter if she really, really likes it. From the humming moan she makes when the pasta hits her tongue, I can tell it’s a winner.

  “Okay, this is good.” She sighs, covering her mouth as she chews and speaks at the same time. So fucking cute.

  “Glad you think so.” I take a bite myself, and damn, it is good—the perfect balance of sweet, spicy, and savory.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes, not at all minding that the only sound is the soft scrape and tap of forks against ceramic plates.

  “Worth the break?” I ask, lifting the wine to my lips for another sip.

  Layne nods vehemently. “Thank you for this. Seriously,” she says, pushing her now empty plate away.

  I meet her soft eyes with a smile. She looks grateful and much more relaxed than when I came in twenty minutes ago.

  When Layne moves closer, I push myself away from the table. She crawls across the carpet until she’s straddling my lap.

  “You still look hungry,” I murmur, tracing her cheek with my thumb.

  “You could say that,” she whispers back.

  Tilting her chin, I capture her mouth in a warm kiss, wrapping my arms around her to hold her close. She kisses me with eager strokes of her tongue against mine in a wine-flavored rush. I drag my hands down the curve of her back, my palms landing on her ass and grinding her hips down against mine. I groan, my dick pushing against the zipper of my pants, eager for her.

  “Do you have a condom?” she asks, taking me by surprise.

  “That’s not why I came here, you know.”

  She nods. “I know. But now that you’re here . . . we might as well make good use of your visit before I have to get back to those piles of paper.”

  My dick lurches at that. Fuck. I can tell her brain is working hard—at what, I’m not su
re. But I can’t help but wonder if this little impromptu hookup is because of the advice of her therapist about having more fun.

  As happy as I am to supply said fun, part of me can’t help but feel a little unsure about all this. Is that really all I am to her? But before I can process it further, there’s a soft knock on her office door. Layne scrambles off of me, straightening her skirt as she strides over to the door.

  It’s Sabrina, still in her coat.

  “Just wanted to check if you needed anything else before I left? Dinner, maybe?” She peeks around Layne to the table where our dishes are still spread. “Oh, I see that’s been taken care of.”

  “Thanks, Sabrina. I’m good,” Layne says.

  I guess I’m the guy who takes care of dinner and supplies Layne with orgasms. It shouldn’t bother me—it’s what we agreed to, after all, keeping things casual and fun. So, why is there a sudden achy feeling in the center of my chest?

  When did all this get so complicated?

  18

  * * *

  GRIFFIN

  I stare at the email on my phone for a solid two minutes before I fully comprehend the words. It’s a message from Milos Ruben, and if I understand this correctly, he’s offering me a job as an architectural designer on his team.

  I roll out of bed, now pacing my room as I keep reading. Full-time salary, create my own hours, benefits package, and a plan to pay off my student loans? Am I still dreaming? He mentions some “out-of-town projects” that he specifically wants me to lead, which can mean a number of things. Is he just sending me down to Orange County, or is he putting me on a plane to Australia?

  I quickly compose a response, explaining that I’d be honored to work for him but need some clarification. What does he mean by “out-of-town” in the offer? How much of the job will be away from home? Can I work remotely? I have so many questions for him, but these are the most critical.