Read Online Books/Novels:
How to Date a Younger Man
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
1733672990 (ISBN13: 9781733672993)
Tips for Surviving a Fling with a Sexy Younger Man …
If you accidentally bang your best friend’s younger brother, here are a few important tips…
One: Do NOT brag to your friend about how well-endowed her brother is.
Two: Do not go back for seconds. Or thirds.
Three: Do not let him see your muffin-top or jiggly behind. And definitely don’t let him feed you cookies in bed. Cookies are bad. Remember that.
Four: Act like a damn grown up and apologize for riding him like a bull at the rodeo. And DO NOT flirt with him when he laughs at said apology.
Five: This one is crucial, so pay attention.
Do NOT under any circumstance fall in love with him.
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Four years ago
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself.
After double-checking the address one last time, I haul the massage table through the wide front doors of the chrome-and-glass building downtown. Anderson and Associates is a lucrative law firm and as I ride the elevator up to the fifteenth floor, I pray to God that I’m not going to be rubbing down some wart-covered, age-spotted, pasty old bastard for the next ninety minutes.
I shudder at the thought. It wouldn’t be the first time though because it kind of comes with the territory of being a massage therapist. You just never know who you’re going to meet.
I finished my undergrad degree in business last year, but since I have no idea what I want to do with my life, I decided to take a year off to figure out my path. And since I still needed to make money, I’d gotten a massage therapist license. I’ve always been good at talking to people, making them comfortable and feeling at ease. I guess working with my hands is just an extension of that talent.
But it’s certainly not my forever. I’m set to start grad school in the fall and I’ll be studying architecture, which will be quite a departure from rubbing elderly people down with lavender-scented oil daily. But, whatever, the money’s been good and has lessened the stress of my finances.
I stop in front of a desk inside the office and feel the young receptionist’s appreciative gaze drift over my broad shoulders and muscular pecs visible under my black T-shirt.
“Hi. I’m here for an appointment with . . .” I glance down at the details on my phone. “Mr. Layne Anderson.”
“Miss Anderson,” the receptionist says, correcting me. “And yes, right this way. We’ve been expecting you.”
She rises to her feet and escorts me down the hall toward a corner office. Inside, a woman with long dark hair sits behind a huge glass-topped desk, her gaze glued to the screen of her laptop and her fingers flying over the keyboard.
The receptionist knocks on the door frame. “Layne?”
The woman looks up, and her gaze lands on mine.
A pulse of excitement flickers through me. Damn, she’s sexy as hell. Not very professional, I know, but it’s the first thought that pops into my head. I’d expected a man because of her name—Layne, pronounced as Lane.
I guess there’s a reason MILF porn is the most popular search on the internet. And my client this afternoon? She’s the living, breathing proof of why those fantasies exist. She’s polished and poised. Exquisitely beautiful and sure of herself in a way that most twenty-somethings aren’t. Myself included.
“Can I help you?” she asks, quickly appraising me before sending a curious glance to her assistant.
I wish I could say that I’m straining to imagine what the shape of her body is under that white button-up shirt and tight gray skirt for professional reasons. Usually, a quick assessment is needed—how is their posture, are there any visible signs of tension in the shoulders and neck, et cetera. But with the woman’s inquisitive gaze on me, I’ve forgotten my own damn name, let alone why I’m standing in her office.
“Happy birthday, boss.” The receptionist smiles, patting me on the shoulder.
We’re still standing in the doorway of the office, so I take a small step forward, holding up the folded massage table with a half smile.
The woman’s brow furrows in confusion. She has no idea what’s happening.
Inwardly, I grimace. Office massages are sometimes given as gifts between coworkers, but my services have never been a surprise gift before. Because . . . you know, it’s intimate.
Wow. Her assistant has some serious balls.
“Thank you.” She smiles diplomatically and stands up, striding over to us with a sharp click of her heels.
When she outstretches a hand to me, a fantasy of those small, slender hands whispering over my forearms and biceps almost overwhelms me. But her hand slides into mine and doesn’t wander any further.
“Layne Anderson,” she says with a curve of her full red lips.
“Griffin.” I grasp her hand, noting her handshake is firm and strong. A little bolt of electricity zips through me at the contact and I wonder if she felt it too.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the receptionist says. “I’ll forward your calls to voice mail for the next hour, okay?” She moves around the room, closing all the blinds, effectively blocking us off from the eyes of any curious coworkers.
“Wait. I appreciate this, I truly do,” Layne says, her palms up and open. “But I don’t have the time.”
So she’s gathered why I’m here. Thank God. Explaining would have been a first. “Hello, ma’am, it’s time for you to get naked from the waist up and let me stroke you with scented oils. Am I moving too fast?”