Page 2 of How to Date a Younger Man
“How much did you pay for this, anyway?” Layne plants her hands firmly on her hips.
I would be annoyed—being referred to as this—but I’m too aware of the fact that I’m about to be dismissed. And that can’t happen for two reasons.
“I’m afraid I’m nonrefundable,” I say, flashing my best I’m totally harmless smile. I can’t tell if it’s working on this woman, though.
Layne’s gaze flicks to me and then back to her employee. She’s making a decision. I hope it’s the right one, because something inside me isn’t ready to go.
“Sorry. Just make the most of it,” the receptionist whispers with exaggerated subservience, and then ducks out of the room.
Their dynamic is fascinating, to say the least. Layne’s employees love her enough to gift her a three-hundred-dollar massage, but they clearly don’t know her very well. I’m still not sure she’s completely on board with this. Luckily, I have no problem getting up close and personal.
The door clicks shut, leaving the two of us alone inside the spacious office, and I swallow, fighting a suddenly dry mouth.
She sighs, almost begrudgingly. “I suppose you won’t let me just fake this whole thing? Lie to my employees and tell them you gave me a life-changing massage?” she asks with a tilt of her head.
Her hair drops over one shoulder, and I find myself thinking, yet again, with the wrong organ.
“It’s entirely up to you,” I say, mirroring her body language in an attempt to make her more comfortable. “I have to say, though, a massage never hurt anyone.”
“Tell that to my in-box,” she says with a smirk. With one final, searing look, she turns her back on me and removes her blazer.
I guess we’re doing this.
“Is there something I need to change into?” she asks, eyeing the small duffel bag slung over my shoulder.
“I’ll put the table together first. It’ll only take five minutes. Then I can either step out while you remove your clothing above the waist and lie down on the table under the sheet, or you can change in the restroom while I handle the minor assembly, and then come out when you’re ready.”
I’m impressed with how professional I sound right now, even though the tingling sensation in my stomach is undoubtedly on a surefire journey toward my groin. If I get a hard-on on the job, I’m going to fire myself.
“Whatever will get this over with sooner,” she grumbles. It’s actually adorable how reluctant she is to be pampered.
Adorable? What’s wrong with me? I should be hella annoyed that this lady is being so difficult. I make the conscious decision to meet her lack of enthusiasm with an equal lack thereof.
“You do you,” I say with a rehearsed shrug and my most flirtatious smirk.
She squints at me in the way my parents did when I first uttered the words that’s what she said in their presence. It’s a mix of confusion with a hint of disbelief.
Way to make yourself look like a douche, man.
Before I can follow up with something, anything, to make up for it, she retreats through a door connecting to a private restroom. Before she closes it behind her, she peeks her head out.
“Five minutes?” she asks, and when I nod, she closes the door behind her.
Damn. I wish I lived a life in which my workplace provided a personal adjoining bathroom to my office. My office is this table, which I yank this way and that until it follows my orders.
Needing something to place my accessories on, I scan the room and spot a small coffee table that will work perfectly. I drag it over to the massage table and unpack my lotions, oils, and portable speaker. I scroll through my phone, select my favorite Chill Vibes playlist, and set the volume on low. The soft music plays pleasantly in the background and in just a few minutes I’m ready for her.
It occurs to me that five minutes was plenty of time for her to undress . . . too much, even. I wonder if she’s standing on the other side of the door, topless and waiting.
My dick twitches in my pants. I take a deep breath, drip some lavender oil on my wrists, and inhale again. I need to calm down if I’m going to do my job well.
The door cracks open a sliver, and she asks, “Are you ready for me?”
My dick full-on throbs at that question. Jesus Christ.
“Yes, I’m facing the far wall. Come lay face down on the table.”
“Yes, sir.”
I can hear her sexy little chuckle from across the room. Focusing on the world outside her window, I desperately try not to seek out the reflection of her naked torso in the glass. Don’t be a fucking pervert, Griff.
“Ready.”
I didn’t even hear her get on the table. She must have taken off her heels. I turn around to find them coupled perfectly by her desk.
