How to Date a Younger Man

by Kendall Ryan

  A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth as I lift my chin to study his profile, a hint of a shadow of stubble perfectly defining his jaw. As if he could sense me watching him, he turns and looks at me, his blue-green eyes piercing mine.

  “You were . . .” I pause, and a stupid smile spreads across my face while I try to find the right word.

  “Incredible? Mind-blowing? Absolutely the best you’ve ever had?” he says, the grin on his face matching mine.

  “Oh, shut up. I was going to say decent,” I tease, swatting his chest and fake rolling my eyes.

  “Decent? You came three times. I think I earned more than decent.”

  His eyes dance like they only do when he’s teasing me, and normally that would make my blood boil. But this time, my blood’s boiling for an entirely different reason.

  “Fine,” I say, resting my chin on his chest. “You were good. Like, too good. Are you sure they weren’t paying you to give your clients a little extra attention at that massage job?”

  He chuckles, brushing his fingertips along my bare arm. “If that were the case, you would have been the first to know.”

  Happy chills run down my spine at the mention of the first time we met, before I knew he was Kristen’s brother, before I even knew his last name.

  That was when he was just some kid who asked me on a date, a piece of man candy I’d only let myself fantasize about late at night when I needed help falling asleep. Little did I know then what he’d come to mean to me—let alone the fact that he’d one day be naked in my bed.

  Out of nowhere, my stomach grumbles loud enough for him to hear, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

  “Wait right here,” he says, slipping out from under me and gently placing my head on a pillow.

  “Where are you—”

  But before I can finish my question, he’s halfway down the hall, and all I can do is watch his tight ass at work while he walks away.

  I sit up, half-aware of the fact that I’m still naked, and decide to take the moment of solitude to run to the bathroom. Wiping off some mascara smudges under my eyes, I can hear him rummaging around in my kitchen, the sound of cabinets opening and closing serving as the countdown clock to fix myself up a bit before he gets back.

  Quickly sitting down on the toilet to pee, I run my fingers through my hair to get the knots out without totally flattening the I just had three orgasms volume I’ve already got going on.

  After flushing the toilet, I wash my hands and study my reflection in the large, floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of me. With any other guy, I’d be fixing my makeup or applying a little lip gloss, but right now, I like the woman staring back at me. Sure, her hair’s a little crazy and she’s slightly flushed, but she looks happy, alive. Nothing like the woman I was only a few days ago.

  At the sound of Griffin’s footsteps in the hallway, I leave the bathroom and climb back into bed, propping myself up on my elbows and pulling my hair to one side. He walks in, his arms full of every box of snacks I have in this house—which, if I’m being honest, isn’t much. But just seeing the proud look on his face as he stands there, his tall, lean frame filling the doorway, is enough to rouse my appetite.

  “I’ve hunted. I’ve gathered. And now I’ve returned,” he says, delicately placing his findings at the foot of the bed, which include a half-eaten bag of low-calorie kettle corn, two boxes of whole wheat and flaxseed crackers, and an unopened package of chocolate chip cookies I’d been saving for that time of the month.

  “My hero,” I say, and honestly, I’m half-serious. My stomach growled earlier for a reason. Grabbing the kettle corn, I help myself to a handful.

  “You have the worst snacks I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” he says, sitting next to me and examining the back of a box of crackers.

  “I try not to keep too much snack food in the house,” I reply between handfuls of popcorn.

  “I can see why.” His mouth twitches up into a smile as he gives me a sidelong glance, but I just swat at his arm with the back of my hand. “Don’t worry. I like a woman with an appetite.”

  I roll my eyes, but on the inside, I’m sighing in relief. I haven’t thought about it before this moment, but I’ve totally let my guard down around him in a way I’ve never done before. Not only have I been completely butt naked around a man who spends at least six days a week at the gym, I’m now scarfing down snack food in front of him. Sure, I take care of myself, but I definitely don’t spend as much time on my body as he does. And honestly? This whole night has felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  “So, are you going to share any of that, or should I just hunker down with these flaxseed crackers?”

  I laugh, throwing a couple of pieces of popcorn at him, totally missing his mouth and hitting his chest and forehead instead.

  “Oh, it’s on,” he says, lunging for the popcorn as I pull it away, starting a whole new game of cat and mouse.

  It’s silly, but I can’t stop smiling. Laughing, the two of us wrestle over the popcorn and cookies and end up tangled up in each other’s limbs. We spend the rest of the night talking and eating and kissing and cuddling.

  And if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t remember the last time a hookup was this fun.

  14

  * * *

  LAYNE

  After a long day at the office, and then a hot shower, I’m lying in bed at barely nine o’clock on a Tuesday night when my cell phone chimes from beside me.

  I turn it over to find a text from Griffin.

  Hey chica.

  I smile and shake my head.

  Hey stud. What’s up?

  Flirting with him this way is entirely new and unexpected and a big piece of me absolutely loves it. I guess some part of me really took my therapist’s comments to heart. I’m definitely putting myself out there and having more fun. And while it won’t lead to anything serious, she was right—it’s surprisingly freeing to give in to temptation. Especially when that temptation is six feet of virile masculinity with a wide, firm chest and jaw-dropping good looks.

  His reply comes seconds later.

  I’m horny.

  Those two little words are followed by a photo of his junk. His white boxer-clad junk, that looks halfway to erect, and a portion of his firm, chiseled abs.

  A hot current of desire flashes through me.

  Come over, I type out.

  Yeah?

  Yes, I write back.

  His isn’t the most romantic proposition, but after the last time he was here, I haven’t stopped thinking about what we did right here in this very bed.

  Bring condoms, I add on hoping I don’t sound like some desperate horny college co-ed.

  Just as my mind is beginning to spin, wondering exactly how Griffin views me, he replies with a thumbs-up emoji and I dissolve into a fit of laughter.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve poured two glasses of wine and lowered the lights in my living room. But the moment Griffin lets himself in, the air around us changes. He crosses the room in three easy strides and then he’s pulling me into his arms. When his mouth lowers to mine, I part my lips and tease his tongue with my own.

  A rough groan escapes the back of his throat. “Missed you,” he murmurs.

  “Bedroom,” I pant as his lips travel down my neck, stopping at my collarbone.

  The wine sits forgotten on the coffee table and we make our way down the hall, unable to keep our hands to ourselves.

  Once inside my room, Griffin stands in front of me, and lifts my chin toward his. His mouth covers mine in a hot, urgent kiss, his tongue moving in confident strokes until I’m practically squirming with desire.

  When I drop to my knees on the floor in front of him, it’s not some well-thought out plan, it’s just need. I need my mouth on him. Need to touch and tease and taste him.

  ”Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he admits as I lower his zipper and draw his thick cock from his jeans. />
  He caresses my hair and gazes down at me with an adoring expression as I welcome the first few inches of him into my mouth. I don’t go slow, I’m so needy for him.

  “Layne, fuck,” he groans, burying his hand in my hair.

  I can’t resist bringing one hand between my legs to touch myself as I pleasure him, but when Griffin notices, he growls and pulls away, hauling me to my feet.

  “Need to be inside you.”

  “Yes,” I groan, body already clenching with anticipation.

  We fall onto the bed together, tugging each other free of every stitch of clothing that remains. Griffin removes a condom from the pocket of his jeans and puts it on while I trace the grooves in his abs with my fingertips.

  Once he’s suited up, he moves on top of me, nuzzling my throat with hot kisses while the blunt head of him presses between my legs.

  “You sure?” he asks on a shaky exhale. “We don’t have to…”

  Reaching between us, I find the right spot and moan when Griffin finally sinks inside.

  He fills me completely and it’s almost too much, but then he slowly withdraws as a deep gasp pushes past his parted lips.

  “Holy shit, Layne. Baby,” he rasps out the words like he’s just as shocked as I am.

  I never expected sex between us to feel like this. I thought it would be like scratching an itch, or like coming in out of the rain—I didn’t think it would feel like getting thrown overboard into a tidal wave with no hope for survival. Because I’m sinking, falling … and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it but make needy inarticulate sounds and grasp his muscles as I hold on.

  “Fuck,” he groans again, finding a rhythm that makes us both shudder and moan.

  Seeing this side of Griffin is almost mind-blowing. He’s so sexy and masculine and tempting … I don’t know how I’ll ever look at him the same way ever again. I’m pretty sure I’m always going to see him like this—long after he’s gone—whenever I close my eyes—which is a dangerous thought. But I know I’ll picture his wide shoulders holding his weight over me, his broad chest rising with each shuttered breath, his trim hips moving in deep, steady thrusts.

  He lasts much longer than I expect—then again, I have no idea what I was expecting, because sex with Kristen’s brother isn’t something I ever envisioned happening.

  It’s only after he’s wrung two mind-blowing orgasms from my body does he let go, emptying himself into the condom with a deep rumbling sound that he breathes into my throat. It’s sexy and also tender. I love how affectionate he is during sex—kissing my lips and my neck and telling me how good I felt. And when it’s over, he doesn’t flee like I expect him to, he just hauls me up onto his chest and holds me until our breathing slows and I’m utterly calm and relaxed.

  15

  * * *

  GRIFFIN

  Standing in front of the architectural firm that could make or break me, I feel lighter than expected. That’s partly because I’m not carrying a thirty-pound massage table in with me and a duffel full of oils, lotions, and towels.

  The only trace of my previous job is the faint scent of essential oils on my wrists. The earthy smell of eucalyptus always calms me, whether I’m nervous or just overexcited. This time, I’m more excited than nervous because I actually think I have a good shot at this position.

  A month ago, I found the listing on a public forum for architects, and then spent the following nights tailoring my résumé and lining up references. Well, except the night I spent in bed with Layne . . . I wasn’t thinking much about job hunting with her calves slung over my shoulders.

  As I relive the memory, I feel a slight tingle in my groin. Okay, let’s not get distracted.

  A classic Griffin smile has the receptionist in a puddle and me inside the executive’s office in less than ten minutes.

  “Jason seems to like you.” Milos Ruben chuckles as he gestures for me to take a seat in the plush office chair across from his desk. He’s a big deal in the architecture world, especially New York. When he set up an office here in LA, I definitely looked him up more than once. “I rarely get a smile like that.”

  “I’m sure his coffee was just extra sweet today,” I say with a smirk. I don’t mind the attention I get, whether it be male or female or otherwise. A compliment is welcome, no matter the source.

  Milos leans back in his chair, splaying my portfolio across his desk. “I spent the morning looking at this, and I have to say I’m impressed,” he says, pointing to a particular page that I was hoping he’d notice. “I like the teamwork aspect of this design you did for . . .”

  “Cleanhouses. It’s a company that specializes in converting abandoned, often condemned buildings into environmentally friendly shelters for the homeless. It was a pro-bono effort of my graduating class that I was lucky enough to take the lead on.”

  “That’s impressive,” he says, leaning one elbow on the desk. “You wouldn’t believe how many of our clients ask about . . . what’s it called?”

  “Greener solutions.”

  “You bet. Twenty years ago, it was all ‘how fast can you get me a design for my project.’ Now, it’s ‘how fast can you get me a design, and how green can it be.’”

  “It’s a movement, certainly. That’s where I spent most of my education.”

  “Perfect.” Milos grins.

  The interview goes on for about twenty minutes longer than it needs to, but I take that as a very good sign. Milos and I have a lot in common, from camping to our interest in self-care. When I tell him about my work as a massage therapist, he nearly shakes my hand.

  “I’ve been saying it my whole life,” he says, his voice deep with conviction. “The human body is the same as a house. Even the perfect design needs upkeep.”

  On that note, we end the conversation with promises to connect again at the end of the week. Jason waves good-bye as I walk out the double glass doors, feeling like a million bucks.

  I nailed that interview. Dying to tell someone, I open my phone and scroll through my contacts.

  Layne’s number is at the top of my favorites, but I hesitate. I don’t know exactly where things lie with us . . . we technically haven’t spoken since the other night. I don’t want to rock the boat, especially when the boat holds cargo as precious as my relationship with her.

  Instead, I go to my number two, Kristen.

  “What’s up, baby brother?” Kristen’s familiar voice fills my ear as I step onto the train platform that will take me back to my apartment.

  “I just nailed a job interview, that’s what.”

  “At the architecture place? Oh my God, yes!” Kristen cheers, and I can imagine her doing that weird little dance that she does when she’s excited. “So, how soon before you can buy me things?”

  “What sort of things?” I ask, humoring her.

  “Kidding,” she says with a laugh. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, it feels damn good to have aced this interview. I guess I’ll have to wait and see what’s next. So, what are you up to this week?”

  “Well, Max did drop a hint the other day . . .”

  “Okay . . . what sort of hint?”

  “I think he’s going to propose this week.” Her voice is a whisper, but I hear the squeal of sheer joy perched in the back of her throat.

  “Oh shit,” I say, a dumb grin spreading across my face. “Are you sure?”

  Max is a good dude, and clearly head over heels for Kristen. I didn’t realize how much I approved of their relationship until this very moment. I’m excited for her.

  “I mean, he asked for my ring size last month, and told me to clear my schedule this weekend for a surprise getaway? Like, it would be annoying that he’s being so obvious about it, but he’s so darn cute!”

  As Kristen spills the details on the last few weeks of their relationship, I find my mind wandering to Layne.

  Will Layne be this happy when she’s proposed to? Will she have this giddy teenager reaction, when the m
an she loves asks her to spend the rest of her life with him? My heart flops back and forth between desire and dread . . . I want her to be this happy. But not with another man.

  By the time I get off the train, Kristen and I say our good-byes, and I walk the rest of the way to my apartment with a newfound lightness in my step. I’m about to get a killer job, the job of my dreams, and my sister is about to marry the love of her life. Life is good.

  So, when I see Wren sitting on the steps waiting for me, I can’t help the sinking feeling, deep in my gut. Why is she here?

  “Hey, Griff,” she says with a smile, extending her long legs across the stairs. There’s no way I can get into my apartment without talking to her.

  I sigh. “Hey, Birdie.”

  She practically glows with happiness when I use the old nickname I gave her back when we were still in school. Maybe this won’t turn into a fight after all?

  “I missed you,” she says sadly, her big eyes meeting mine. “Come here.”

  She beckons me to sit with her, and so I do. There’s never really a good way to tell Wren no . . . not unless you plan to leave with your eardrums intact. Angry Wren is a loud Wren.

  When I sit down, she spreads her legs across mine, knotting our limbs together.

  “Did you miss me?” she asks, fishing.

  “Of course,” I say, and it’s not entirely false.

  I love this girl like a sister. We’ve been through everything together. We were even each other’s firsts. Awkward and fumbling and completely unsatisfying firsts. And I would continue to love this girl if she would agree to some boundaries.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, training my voice to sound more curious than accusatory.

  “I’ve been lonely,” she says, using one bangled wrist to toss her long red hair over a pale shoulder. “It’s like I don’t have any friends other than you, sometimes.”

  Do you have other friends?

  “Come on . . .” I scoff, unsure of what response she’s looking for.