Page 53 of How to Date a Younger Man
“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 sure. 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.
