The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(51)

“How is that any fun?”

Skylar pulls a face. “Good point.”

“Push the desk out of the way if you can,” I tell her, backing up a bit, about to take a small, running start. “Then move out of the way.”

Getting into my room is easy, takes me no time at all. I don’t mention this to anyone—ever—but back in the day, my mom used to make me take gymnastics. At first it was because my sister Monica was afraid to take the class alone and Mom wasn’t allowed to sit through the class with her.

So she signed me up, too, and well—let’s just say I excel at the pommel horse.

I make it in the first attempt and don’t tear my guts out in the process.

“Holy crap!” Skylar is impressed.

Perfect dismount.

I call that a win.

My shoes come off first, and I kick them toward the closet door; Skylar’s are already resting there, neatly arranged. My eyes adjust to the dark and I can make out her figure seated at the foot of my bed, resting against her hands, back arched as she watches the shadow of me moving about the space.

I’ve lived in this room for three years, so my movements are automatic, fluid. Two steps to the desk, two more to the closet. Six to the door. Seven to the bed.

Down the hall, the sound of the front door opening and closing as JB heads next door.

I now owe Rachel a favor and don’t even care.

My shirt comes off as I go, one button at a time until it gets tossed to the hardwood floor.

When I reach her, I bend, grabbing beneath her knees, arm sliding under, the other at the small of her back. Lift.

She gasps as I carry her to the spot where I sleep and deposit her there, as gently as I can. Walk my way back around to the foot of the bed and crawl—in just my jeans—toward her, hands running up her legs, thighs, and waist. Shoulders and neck dipping, nose nuzzling between the apex of her thighs. Give her a long whiff just to hear her gasp again. Bite down on the denim and burrow.

A few seconds is all I need; I’m totally turned on. Rock hard.

Blood coursing through every single vein at a breakneck pace, knowing how this little party is going to end.

Cool it, Abe.

Idly—some would say lazily—Skylar watches but doesn’t participate as I run my palms along the hemline of her pretty shirt, intent on its removal.

She moves a tiny bit, shifting her hips so I can push up her shirt. Gaze trailing me in the dark. Lips softly parted.

They shine when she licks them.

I harden when she licks them.

Within moments, her top is gone, discarded, tossed somewhere with mine and I bend my torso, mouth on a course for her skin.

“Take my pants off, too,” she requests, still just lying there, hands now raised above her head, head resting on the pillow. Hair fanned out, black against the stark white.

“Yes, ma’am.” Her wish is my command, my fingers plucking at her button-fly jeans. One. Two. Three.

Done.

“You’re going to call me tomorrow, right?” Her voice is timid.

“I won’t have to, because I’ll be looking at you when we wake up,” I tell her, tongue flicking her pussy over the thin fabric of her panties. I suck, heating the patch between her legs.

Her back arches, head coming off the pillow. “Oh my god, Abe.”

“Shhh, babe, you have to be quiet. Just in case.” I suck her through her underwear again, hooking the silk out of my way, tongue pressing into the slit.

Skylar’s head hits the pillow and she cranes her neck, teeth biting down on the cotton casing. “You have to stop, I’ll never…ohhhh…”

I stop licking, rising on my haunches to unbutton my pants, the zipper whirring mingling with the sound of Skylar’s heavy breathing—and mine—as I shove my jeans and briefs down, over my lean hips. Work them off and throw them both to the floor. Spread Skylar’s legs, leisurely dragging my calloused palms over the smooth, perfect skin of her inner thighs. I kiss along them, starting at her knees—they’re shaking—hips already working in slow circles above my head.

Wanton. Sexy.

She wants it; I could taste it on her and now I can see and smell it.

My plan isn’t to make her come.

It’s to make her crazy.

Briefly my thoughts stray to protection; I haven’t had to buy condoms in ages, but I think there’s at least one that’s unexpired in my desk drawer. Somewhere.

Unless she’s on the pill; I wouldn’t mind going in bareback, and she has nothing to worry about from me—I’m STD-free and get tested regularly. Plus, I haven’t had sex in fucking forever. We haven’t discussed it, but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t either.

Especially judging by how tight she is when I slide a finger inside.

Her head thrashes, fingers white-knuckling the pillowcase like she’s on a thrill ride, which she kind of is.

My face.

I haven’t even seen half of her body, having spent most of my time with my mouth between her legs, so I give her one last lick, flicking the tip of my tongue up and down a few times just to hear a gasp escape her throat.

Kiss her pussy. Her lower abs when I work my way up, the tip of my forefinger tracing her belly button, nestled in her pale flesh. Skylar isn’t skinny, or thin, and her stomach isn’t flat—she’s soft. Curvy like a woman should be.