The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(63)

“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.