The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(53)

“How much?”

“A lot.” I’m an idiot who is incapable of forming complete sentences. “I like them a lot.”

Her warm mouth is on my shoulder, dragging along the toned muscles. Hands soon join her mouth, her palms exploring the hard tendons of my biceps.

“God Abe, your body—I love it.”

“Yeah? Tell me all about it.”

“First put it inside me.”

“Skylar,” I croak. I sound like a prepubescent teenager whose balls haven’t dropped.

“Please, Abe,” she begs.

“We don’t…I’m not wearing a condom.”

“Well go get one then,” she snaps.

I stop moving entirely, balls throbbing. “Okay, but I’m pretty sure it’s a hundred years old.” Shut the fuck up, idiot! What are you doing? Trying to talk her out of safe sex?

Skylar sighs, loud and heavy enough to wake the dead. Rolls her eyes. “Get the one in my purse.”

“You have condoms in your purse?”

“I have uh condom—as in one. I wasn’t sure how all this would go and wanted to be sure.”

Miserably, I heave myself off, buck-ass naked, and feel my way through the pitch-black recesses of my room. “Where’s your purse?”

“I think I threw it by the desk chair. Hurry, I’m cold!”

This is what we get for waiting to have the condom talk; I could have had it sitting next to the damn bed.

“Where?” I can’t find her fucking purse, have no idea what it looks like; plus, it’s impossible to see with my desk shoved from its original spot.

“Check by my shoes by the closet.”

It’s by the closet, set on top of her shoes—bingo, we have a condom and now we’re back in business.

Except…

“Where inside your purse?”

A sigh. “I don’t know, I just tossed it in. Root around—there’s not a ton of stuff in there.”

Right. Root around. “Gotcha.”

It takes me thirty more seconds to find the fucking thing and throw her purse back to the floor then I scramble, trying not to kill myself on the way back to my bed. Tear the wrapper open, throw it to the ground, and roll on the rubber before I hit the mattress.

It’s a bit tight, but I’m not about to complain right now.

Dick hanging between my legs, I begin the crawl back over her beautiful body.

“Do you want me on top?”

“I want whatever you want.”

We’re both breathing heavier now; this wait is about to make me go insane. I want to bury myself—thrust, pump, and come.

“I think I want to be on top,” she tells me.

One last kiss on the mouth and I’m rolling to the empty side of the bed, lowering my knees and legs so she can climb on board.

I skim my hands over her backside when she settles down, her smooth ass cheeks filling my hands. Leaning forward, she kisses me, tits hanging in the perfect position for me to cup them with my giant hands.

“Mmm, you feel good,” she croons, leaning down to nip at the skin of my collarbone. “Taste good, too.”

She hasn’t sunk down on me yet.

I try to say, I aim to please, but the words won’t come out, because it’s the same moment Skylar lines herself up and lowers her body.

“Holy fucking…” sh-shit.

A tiny gasp of air fills both our lungs. She’s taking her time, each second measured, killing us both in the unbearably slow process.

She is going to kill us. I’m going to fucking die if I can’t bury myself deep.

My hips want to thrust up, cock filled with so much blood my brain gets lightheaded. No way could I walk out of this room and operate a motor vehicle, or take a sobriety test, or add two numbers together.

Skylar sinks lower, taking the last of my brain cells with her.

Two plus two is eleventy hundred.

Her breath is shaky. Labored. Hands pressing against my makeshift headboard—a giant Iowa wrestling flag I have pinned to the wall.

I hope she doesn’t accidentally tear it down while we’re screwing; it’s only hanging on by a thread—well, by four tiny brass push-pins, one in each corner and— “Fuck, Skylar.” I’m the one gasping when she swivels her hips, rocking back and forth on top of me, kind of like a rodeo queen fucking a bucking bronco.

Bad analogy.

“God you feel good,” she whispers into the darkness, and all I can hear are the short breaths she’s taking as she rides me.

“Does it hurt?”

Because she is really fucking tight, gloriously so. Snug. Warm. Wet. Tight.

A motherfucking dream come true.

“It kind of does but in a good way. I…it burns just a little, but I don’t care—you feel so…mmm, Abe, stay just like that, don’t move.” Her hips continue their steady, rhythmic rotation, languid and unhurried, hands still pressed against the back wall.

When she angles her neck, I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the light; her eyes are closed, teeth bearing down on her bottom lip. She’s concentrating.

“Mmm…oooo…” Her sex noises aren’t loud, but they’re sexy. A bit porno-worthy, but that’s just my opinion. “Put your hands on my ass please.”