Page 39 of How to Date a Younger Man
I lean against the wall next to her, our bare arms only separated by a few inches of cold brick. “What made you try extra hard tonight?”
I have a gut feeling that it’s something to do with her therapy session earlier today. It’s fresh in her mind, considering she brought it up while we were inside. Layne isn’t exactly an open book, or at least she isn’t the kind of person to bring up her mental health so flippantly in the middle of a bar. Something’s obviously eating at her.
“I just wanted to put myself out there tonight. Try and have some fun or something,” she says, air quotes and all. She shakes her head with an empty laugh. “I’m just so unmotivated.”
“Why’s that?” I look down at her, unable to see her eyes anymore, just those lush dark lashes.
“Because . . . well, all I want to do is hang out with you.”
My heart leaps. Okay . . . I didn’t see that coming.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say after a few moments of weighted silence. “You want to meet someone tonight, put this dress to work . . . but you only want to be with me.”
Layne turns away with a shrug, her expression unreadable. “I know, it’s silly. It’s just so easy to be with you, and so hard to . . . always be on the lookout.”
“Okay,” I say, flipping a mental coin. Heads, I take the safe route. Tails, I go for it.
Who am I kidding? It was always going to be tails.
“I think I have a solution for that,” I say, nudging her with my elbow.
She rocks slightly on her heels with a giggle, meeting my eyes with an uncharacteristically shy look. “What?”
I step forward and position my body directly in front of hers. If I raised my arms and placed my hands on the cold brick, I could lock her against my body and . . .
Patience, Griff. You’ve come this far.
“You could work on both of those goals tonight, you know?”
“How?” She sounds slightly breathless.
“Come home with me.”
Layne stares at me in a way she hasn’t ever before. Several silent seconds tick past, and I’m sure she’s going to shoot me down. Just like she has every other time.
“Okay.” Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but her gaze is hot on mine.
Wait, what?
I blink, and my mouth hangs open. Finally, I ask, “Okay?”
“Yeah..”
I squeeze my eyes closed and then reopen them, testing the reality of this situation. Layne watches me with something like amusement woven into her smile.
Yep, still real, still happening.
“Okay, I’ll get a car,” I say, pulling out my phone.
I remember to text my sister and send her a brief, perhaps cryptic message. Something about a migraine and calling it a night. By the looks of it, she’ll be too preoccupied with being in love to spare a second thought for my whereabouts.
“One thing,” Layne says, and my heart braces for impact. “We’re going to my place.”
My dick throbs painfully against the zipper of my jeans, and my mouth lifts in a smile. Layne in charge is the hottest Layne.
It’s a quick eight-minute drive from the bar to Layne’s house . . . some stroke of luck. Is God rewarding me for my year of celibacy? Did some higher power finally decide to throw me a bone?
Speaking of which, the appendage trying to pound through my jeans is actually painful enough that I have to discreetly adjust it while Layne talks to the driver. I feel like I’m lost in a dream when I step out of the car, following the sway of Layne’s hips as she leads me up the stairs of her porch.
Inside, the lights are off, and I can hear the distant hum of the dishwasher. Immediately, I’m comfortable and at ease. I love this house, and I rarely get to see it these days. Everything has its rightful place . . . from the modest drink cart to the faux alpaca rug sprawled in front of the fireplace. I don’t waste much time admiring her living arrangement, however. The soft sound of Layne’s voice snaps my attention back to her as she stands at the end of the hall.
“Do you need anything? Water? A beer?” she asks, her heels hanging in one hand as the other rests lightly on the door frame of her dimly lit bedroom. Her silhouette strikes me as heavenly, all curves and natural grace.
I lick my lips. “No, I don’t need anything.”
“Then get in here,” she says, stepping into her room and dropping her heels on the soft shag rug just inside.
I follow her inside as if in a trance. Layne stands with her back to me, unzipping the back of her dress, almost urgently. I catch her hands before she gets it free.
