The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag Book 5)

by Sara Ney

  Thank God he can’t see my face—or the hard swallow.

  “Um…I’m a novice masseuse, so you should lower your expectations of this massage. It won’t be deep tissue or anything.”

  He bends forward, kissing my lips. “It’s going to feel amazing.”

  “It’ll probably feel more like butterfly wings,” I caution.

  “I love butterflies.”

  “Uh. Okay.” I crack my knuckles, posturing. “Here I come!”

  The massage starts off okay. I’m next to him on the bed, kneeling and kneading, my hands lacking the proper oil or lotion to make them glide.

  Still. I use the tools the good Lord gave me—my palms—pressing as deep into his back as I can without hurting him. Pressing with the tips of three fingers like I’m kneading a loaf of dough, which looks idiotic.

  And I’m only doing it because if I don’t, I’ll end up sliding my hands into the elastic waistband of his athletic pants and groping his beautiful squatter’s ass when I’m supposed to be rubbing his back.

  “Maybe you should sit on me.”

  Say what now?

  “Sit on you?”

  “Yeah, you know—climb on.”

  “Your back?”

  “Yes. It might be easier to get my shoulders.” He cranes his thick neck to glance up at me. “You won’t hurt me—you barely weigh anything.”

  Okay, now I know he’s lying. I weigh plenty, and it’s hardly nothing. But I clamp my lips shut since he’s clearly delusional and thinks I’m a delicate flower.

  I’m not, but whatever.

  “Did you know seventy percent of all massages lead to sex?” I ask him, fingers gliding down his ribcage in a very unmassagey way.

  He shivers. “Is that a fact or did you just make it up?”

  “It’s a fact.” I think. “I feel like I read it somewhere.”

  “Sounds legit.” Abe laughs, his whole gorgeous, toned body shaking gently.

  “Does it?”

  His neck cranes again. “Did you make it up?”

  “No!” I laugh. “I mean—I can’t quote the source, but…”

  “Do not tell me the source is Hannah.”

  Okay, so maybe the source was Hannah. “It could have been, I don’t know.”

  I release my hands from his body when he rolls over, grabbing the palms that were just on his lower back and placing them on his abs for me.

  My fingers splay, thumb beginning a slow motion over his belly button.

  “I think you made that statistic up so you could get frisky.” His deep voice is husky, eyes intent.

  “Not true.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I think you just proved it all on your own.” My eyes slowly travel to the tent in his pants, Abe’s erection jutting out.

  He follows the line of my gaze before reconnecting with mine. Scowls.

  “I think your dick is protesting a little too loudly against your burden for proof. It wants the statistic to stand as fact.”

  “He’s not the boss of me.”

  “Oh, it’s a he?”

  “I mean. I’m a guy—dicks can’t be a female.”

  “Just…please do not tell me you have a name for it.”

  He does not hesitate. “Little Abe.”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “Seriously? That’s the most creative thing you could come up with?”

  “It’s not like I sit around thinking about shit like that.”

  “Good point. Because if you did, we’d have bigger problems than the one wanting my attention right now.”

  I slide a fingernail over the fabric covering the length of him and he groans, head flopping back onto the mattress.

  “Does Little Abe want to play?” I baby-talk to his penis, giving it a stroke through his pants. “Widdle Abey Wabey.”

  “Stop talking like that. Fuck.” Abe’s big head immediately pops back up so he can properly glower at me. “When you say it out loud, it sounds really fucking dumb.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I tease. “Can we just call it ‘your dick’ like normal people and move on with our lives?”

  “Yes. You’re the one who asked if I named it.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “You should have just said no.”

  “You set a trap and I walked into it.”

  “I was not setting a trap. It was an innocent question I didn’t think you’d have an answer to.”

  “You still outsmarted me. You’re a mind ninja—and coupled with the power of massage, I had no control over my answer.”

  Such a ridiculous, sweet thing to say. I stroke him again, loving the firm muscle gliding through my fingers. Loving the fact that I make him hard. Loving the fact that he wants me.

  That he thinks I’m smart and funny and sexy.

  I think he’s brilliant and smart and so, so sexy.

  We’re well-matched.

  “You know what else little ninjas have control over?” I drag my palm slowly along his inner thigh, his warm skin heating my hand.

  “What?” he whispers—as if he doesn’t already know.

  I work my way up past his thick thighs, over his lean hips, my fingers deftly working the waistband of his pants.

  “Really little little ninjas.”

  “So I can’t call my dick Little Abe but you can call it Little Ninja?”

  “Little Little Ninja.”

  “Can we not insult my dick?”

  It’s far from little—quite literally just manageable enough to…do what I’m about to do with it.

  Which is put it in my mouth.

  And suck.

  And try to blow his mind. It’s a sex act I’ve never considered myself good at, one I’ve never been anxious to perform (the one time I performed it) and therefore haven’t repeated since.

  I attempt to tug his waistband down over his erection, try to be casual and sexy about it, but the stupid pants get caught on his penis, sending a furious blush creeping up my chest, up my neck, to my face.

  The second attempt is successful, and I have them down over his hips in a flash, marveling at the taut power in his hips and thighs, which flex from the contact of my fingers.

  I remove the pants completely—Abe isn’t wearing boxers, or briefs, or anything remotely resembling underwear—and debate my next move.

  He watches silently, arms going behind his head, fingers laced together. He’s got a front row seat to the action, and he’s a keen observer.

  I wish he wouldn’t watch; this could end horribly.

  His body is chiseled perfection—ridiculously so—made of stone and steel and heat. Perfect abs. Gorgeous arms. Mouthwatering thighs. Beautiful, hardworking hands; I marvel that they’ve been on my flesh.

  Abe moans, eyes closing (thank God) when, finally, I lay my palms on his skin, trailing them along the cords in his legs. Inwardly, I moan, too, just from touching him. From anticipation, really, the saliva in my mouth an indication that I want this almost as much as he does.

  Perhaps I’m lustier than I give myself credit for.

  Hannah will be glad to hear it.

  What would she do right now? She’s more adept at sex play than I am, and why am I even calling it that? Sex play? What am I, eighty?

  Hannah would go right at it—put that dick in her mouth and go to town. But I’m more hesitant, gauging how deep it will go once it’s in my throat, not wanting to choke and die.

  Death by blowjob.

  “Yes officer, she suffocated swallowing my cock.”

  When I laugh, one of Abe’s eyes opens. “What’s so funny?”

  Shit. Way to ruin the mood, Skylar.

  “Nothing.”

  His eye slides closed again. Lips parted, breath hitching when I grip his hard-on in my hands, testing its weight. Give it a few practice strokes up and down, tentatively, not wanting to squeeze too hard.

  Is there such a thing? Don’t guys like a stiff tug? Is there such a thing as a bad blowjob?

  I really should start watching por
n to score some pro tips.

  Before I lower my head, I remove my top, my bra, and—get naked. I’m tempted to rub up against him but fight the urge, aligning my body into position so I can get comfortable when I lower my torso. Dip my shoulders, hovering over his shaft.

  Shaft.

  Yeah, that’s what I said.

  It fits in my mouth snugly, the tip hot and salty, too. Begin a steady bob with my head, synchronizing the sucking and bobbing and adding my hand to the party.

  Pleased I’ve managed to do three things at once, I relish the sounds coming from Abe’s throat. The moans and groans. Occasional thrust from his hips when I hit the sweet spot, sucking harder. Sinking onto it farther with my mouth until it hits the back of my throat, something I thought would make me choke.

  It doesn’t.

  High fives all around.

  I don’t know how long I blow Abe; he hasn’t come yet. Hasn’t tugged on my hair or given the I’m gonna come signal. So I suck. And stroke and,

  “Baby, I want to fuck you.”

  I shake my head no. I want to finish him off.

  “Skylar, please,” he begs.

  Nope.

  I’m going to blow him then he’s going down on me, and we can both fall asleep satisfied.

  I’m so excited I can’t stand it.

  My girl parts tingle. Get wet. I can feel it even as I go down on Abe, am conscious of the hormones building inside my body, making me crazy horny and sex-starved.

  Foreplay. Is. The. Shitttt.

  “Are you sure?” He interrupts me again, his big hands stroking the back of my head, fingers giving my loose strands a tug. Gentle. Still, I can feel the tension in his hands; he wants to bear down and direct but is resisting the urge.

  I make a mental note to tell him he doesn’t have to be such a damn gentleman all the time. It’s okay to be dirty with me. I like it. I want it. Maybe not all the time, but occasionally would be sexy.

  Then I feel it.

  I feel his balls tighten in my hand, a small pulsing in the base of his cock and his murmured, “Shit, Skylar, I’m gonna…I’m gonna…” He taps on my shoulder, the universal sign for Stop blowing me, I’m gonna come.

  But I don’t stop because I’m going to swallow that semen if it’s the last thing I do. I’m not a spitter; I refuse to be a quitter.

  Damn, I should put that on a t-shirt and sell it—bet I’d make a fortune.

  “Fuck, Skylar, fuck…”

  Abe’s abs constrict, his lower half jerking when he comes inside my mouth, the moan emanating from his chest a bit guttural.

  “Oh fuck…”

  I’m surprised to discover I don’t taste it when he comes inside my mouth; it goes straight down my throat and never touches my tongue.

  Huh. Who knew?

  Lifting my head, I brush away the strands of hair that fell into my face when my head was bent and reach over to kiss his mouth. Our lips lock, his hand at the back of my neck, pulling me in, deepening the kiss.

  Our tongues entwine. Wet. Hot. Kisses.

  “Your turn,” he tells me. “Lie down.”

  “Are you sure…” I feign protest.

  His hands wrestle with my waist, taking me to the mattress. Give me a yank to position me, my head up near the headboard. Slowly, he eases his way down my body, arms braced on either side of me, raining kisses on my skin along the way.

  Column of my neck. Kiss.

  Collarbone. Kiss.

  The valley between my breasts. Kiss.

  My stomach. Kiss.

  Belly button. Kiss.

  His warm breath kisses my skin, too. Mouth opening when he’s down between my legs, the tingling I felt earlier intensifying to a satisfying burn. God, I want his mouth there so bad it aches.

  Throbbing. Aching. Need.

  If there was ever such a thing…

  I gasp loudly—a half moan, half gasp—when his tongue dips into my slit.

  “Your pussy tastes so fucking good.”

  It does?

  Thank God. I mean, how the hell does a girl even know what it tastes like? I did make sure not to eat anything gross today, like tuna fish salad or seafood or whatever, haha. Just loads of fresh fruit. In the event Abe decided to go down on me.

  His tongue goes deeper. His lips suck harder. He uses a bit of teeth and I moan, unable to stop the loud sound from filling the bedroom.

  I’m unable to keep my hips from gyrating, wanting it deeper and harder but unable to control him.

  Abe spreads my legs, pushing them wider with his big, gorgeous, sexy hands. Keeping them spread with wide shoulders. The thumb on his right hand finding my clit and pressing down like it’s a hot button.

  It feels incredible.

  It feels like I never want it to stop, but I want to come so fucking bad. I don’t, though.

  But I do, “Oh god Abe don’t stop.”

  Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t ever, ever stop.

  Abe growls like a caveman, bearing down and finishing me off as if his goddamn life depends on it. Leaving me lying there, lower half shuddering.

  All is right with the world.

  The first knock on Abe’s bedroom door comes around twelve-thirty in the morning, an unobtrusive rap that wakes us from a sex-dazed nap. Abe is sprawled out, flat on his back in the middle of his bed, and I lie sated, snuggled up next to him.

  The second knock isn’t as tolerant. Full knuckled.

  The third? Slightly aggressive.

  Banging fist.

  “What the hell?”

  Abe and I both stir, stopping short when the doorknob rattles and his roommate’s voice booms through the wood.

  “Dude. Why is your door locked? Are you cranking one out?” JB rattles the knob again, trying to jiggle it free.

  I roll my eyes at his crude terminology for masturbating but otherwise lie perfectly still.

  Waiting.

  “What’s up?” Abe calls out, pulling the blanket over our naked bodies. What’s the point of getting dressed when you’re only going to have sex again?

  “Fucker, open the door so I can tell you.”

  “I’m naked.” It’s not a lie, and I snake my hand beneath the covers to gently grip his dick. Mmm, mine.

  “So?” Jack’s voice is impatient on the other side of the door; I can almost hear him sigh. “I’ve seen your hairy balls before.”

  Abe does not have hairy balls.

  “What do you want, Jack?”

  “I want you to open the fucking door. Duh.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait.”

  “Why aren’t you opening the goddamn door?”

  Abe’s patience frays. “What the fuck, JB. Lay off—I said we could talk in the morning.” He shoots me a frustrated nod. “I don’t know what his problem is.”

  “Uh—he’s drunk. That’s what his problem is.” And according to my boyfriend, if he finds us in post-coital bliss, he’s likely to have a coronary.

  JB continues to bang like a petulant child who’s been locked out of the bathroom while his mother tries to take a pee in private.

  “I have to open the door.”

  “Uh. No you don’t,” Abe replies.

  He’s already half off the bed, pulling on his pants. To me he says, “You have to hide.”

  “Oh my god, I am not hiding. This is ridiculous. If you wait patiently, he’ll go away.”

  “No he won’t—it’s going to drive him crazy that I’m not unlocking my door.”

  “It’s not like he’s going to come in the window.”

  “The window! Great idea.” He starts gathering my clothes and tossing them at me, article by article until I’m frowning, bra hitting my chest. “Put that on.”

  Instead, I throw it back down to the floor. “What the hell, Abe? I am not going out the window!”

  “What about the closet?”

  “Stop freaking out. Why don’t you just tell him?”

  The pounding stops. “Dude, do you have a girl
in there with you?”

  We hold our breath, and I wait patiently for Abe to confirm it. “No.”

  My shoulders sag—this would have been the perfect opportunity to tell JB we’re dating. What’s the worst thing that could happen? They fight for a bit? Surely this isn’t that big a deal. JB didn’t even like me.

  “This has gone on long enough. You said you were going to tell him. I knew we were going to hide out in here tonight, but you should see yourself.”

  “It’s not my fault he’s an asshole.”

  “It kind of is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You do his dirty work for him—of course he’s going to act like an asshole. He thinks he controls you.”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  This time, I get out of the bed and gather my clothes, pulling on my pants, bra, and shirt. “I’m not fighting about this.”

  “I don’t want to fight about it either.”

  “That’s why I’m leaving.” I walk to the window and unlatch it. “I refuse to argue about this.”

  “I’m sorry about the window, babe. Let me get my sneakers and I’ll come with you.” He makes quick work of dressing, but when I turn, I hold my hand up in rebuke.

  “Forget it. I’m going home—alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. Until you grow a pair of balls and tell JB you have a girlfriend, you don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Skylar, come on.”

  “No.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  I toss my purse out into the dark, one leg half out the window, my hand gripping the encasement to steady myself. “And I think you’re underreacting.”

  “It’s dark outside,” he futilely argues.

  I couldn’t care less if it’s dark out. I. Am. Leaving.

  “Yes. I can see that.”

  “You shouldn’t walk home alone—it’s not safe.”

  “Good thing I drove.”

  I drop to the ground, hen-pecking in the semi-darkness for my purse, the glow spilling from Abe’s bedroom window my only guiding light.

  “Skylar, don’t leave.”

  His attempt to reel me back in is a fickle, weak one that makes my lips purse. I whip around to face his window, seeking out his silhouetted figure in the dark.

  “If you think I’m hiding in your closet from that asshole, you’re out of your damn mind, and the fact that you would ask me to says more about you than it does about me.” I pull my purse strap over my shoulder. “Don’t call me until you care more about me than about what your roommate thinks.”