The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

“Happy birthday,” I whisper. “And congratulations on today. I’m glad I was there.”

Our eyes meet across the table. “Me too. Knowing you were there was…different.”

Tempted by the sweet icing, I dip my finger in the frosting and lick it clean. “Different? How?”

“Sensing your presence. I’ve never had someone I care about come watch me before besides my family.”

“Oh, I was watching you all right—all the parts of you.” I wiggle my manicured brows. “Speaking of watching you, your mom was really bothered by the signs.”

“What signs?”

“The ones people bring to cheer you on. I didn’t think those were allowed at wrestling meets.”

“I mean, they’re allowed, but most people don’t bring them. It’s not a sport like football where people are screamin’ in the stands.”

“Well your mom wasn’t a fan. She was horrified. She kept asking how girls could proposition a guy like that. It was terrible…I felt so guilty.”

“You’re nothin’ like those girls.”

I groan out of frustration, run a hand through my long hair. Flip it over my bare shoulder. “I felt so guilty about the whole flyer thing, I almost told her.” Move in closer. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”

His eyes get wide, the glint unmistakable. “Is that so?”

“So close.”

He leans forward a few inches. “Dodged that bullet then, didn’t we? She would have flipped the fuck out.”

“Wendy? Uh, yeah. She was glaring daggers at those mat chasers.”

Our noses touch. “She’s always been overprotective.”

“I don’t blame her.” I will be, too, if I have sons.

“Why?”

I reach down, swipe a finger full of frosting, tongue swirls over it. Sucks. “Because you’re mine.”

We lean into each other, over the blazing cake, lips unyielding. My tongue goes right into his mouth, dragging along his, our moans a delicious chorus.

“You taste so fucking good,” he says, sucking the frosting off my bottom lip.

I shiver. “So do you.”

The candles, pretty as they are, are hot. Burning brightly beneath us, singeing the bodice of my dress. I pull back, grinning. “You better blow out your candles and make a wish before we burn this place down.”

Rhett studies me intently, our eyes meet and hold. “I wish—”

“No!” I chastise. “You don’t say it out loud or it won’t come true.”

“It won’t?”

“No.” Do guys know nothing? Ugh.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” His body bends, shoulders hunch so he’s within reach. He inhales a deep breath and blows and blows until all twenty-one candles are extinguished, gray smoke rising from the wicks.

We watch as it dissipates into thin air.

“Want some birthday cake?” I whisper.

“Yeah.” He grins. “Is it as sweet as your cookies?”

“Sweeter.”

“Got a knife?”

“No.”

“Forks?”

I shake my head. Mouth the word no.

“No forks. No knife.” He feigns a search for cutlery. “No plates. How do you suggest we eat this?”

“We’ll have to be creative. Are you creative, Rhett?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

I laugh at his honesty. Laugh at how darn cute he is, finger dipping into the top of his cake one more time. Break off a small chunk and raise it to his lips, feeding it to him.

His mouth opens, takes the offering. Lips close around my fingers. Suck.

Then.

That index finger on his left hand takes its own leisurely jog through the glaze, filching an inch of decorative trim along the top. He drags that sweet finger along my collarbone, gaze so blazing it strips me bare. Fiery.

I hold my breath, waiting.

Moan when his tongue hits my frosting-soiled skin, licking an unhurried line along my clavicle, lapping it up.

He takes another swipe at the cake, dragging his finger between the valley of my breasts. Busies his face between them, licking. Pushes up the undersides of my boobs, sucking the smooth globes above my neckline.

I want to rip my dress off and cover myself with frosting so he spends the rest of the night with his mouth on my skin.

“Take your shirt off,” I utter quietly, head still tipped back from his ministrations, and I don’t have to ask him twice; his shirt is ripped off within seconds, dragged up that shredded, firm body.

I push the cake plate to one side of the table, out of my way. Scoot forward so I’m in front of him, fingers drifting to the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoning the fly below his belly button.

Give a soft tug.

He’s a quick study, and his ass rises so I can tow the denim down over his hips. Skim the pants down his thighs and onto the floor.

“Take your dress off,” he utters quietly, the timbre and tone of his voice giving me goose bumps. Rhett watches me with hooded eyes; they’re at half-mast, lust-filled. Full of yearning and desire when the cold metal zipper of my dress whirs down its track.

Rhett braces himself up by the arms, watching me, following my movements like a starving man waiting for his next meal. I follow the lines of his body, the way he positions himself on the table, starting at his calves, working my way up his legs as he sits cross-legged on the table top. Over the bulge in his boxers, across his defined, washboard abs. His rock-hard pecs. Those incredible unyielding shoulders.

Flared nostrils. Serious expression.

My mouth waters a little at the sight of him sitting next to a cake, knowing what is inevitably going to be done with it.

I shimmy the black dress up my ribcage; it moves like velvet over my skin, as slowly as I can tease, until the cool air from the dining room hits the naked flesh of my stomach. I shiver when I’m before him in nothing but my sheer panties—a thong, black and barely there.

Crawling across the table toward him, I straddle his lap so we’re facing one another, my breasts brushing his chest. We both moan. Rhett’s giant bear paw hands grapple for my ass, pulling me in while I tip to the side, whisking two fingers into the cake.

Smear frosting on my boobs and arch my back so he can lick it off. He squeezes my ass as he sucks my nipples clean with his flattened tongue. Tastes my necks. Licks my jaw.

Slowly his mouth moves over my bare flesh, the heat from his breath and the texture of his tongue creating premature waves of pleasure down below. It has my hips rotating in his lap, lining up my slit over his underwear, teeth dragging along my bottom lip from the pleasure.

“What do you like better?” I ask. “Cookies or cake?”

Rhett buries his nose in my cleavage, nuzzling, hands splayed on my back. “I’m always going to choose the cookies.”

“What if I try to change your mind?”

“You can try.”

I climb down off his lap. Dip my finger in the buttery white frosting, run it along his inner thigh. Lean down and lick it, lapping it up, brazen. Spread more on the head of his dick, bending to suck it off. Draw in the tip over and over until he’s moaning, large hand brushing my hair out of the way so he can watch.

“Fuck…shit.” His eyes are glassed over and distant, teeth raking his bottom lip. “Fuck you’re sexy. God, don’t stop.”

I don’t stop, not when his fingers find their way into my hair, tugging.

I gloat in the satisfaction—the power. The ability to drive him wild and make him beg. To bring this huge, powerful boy to his weakest point. Make him vulnerable.

“Laurel.” He pants, gasping. “Oh sshhit—baby, l-let me…I have to be inside you.”

Baby. Inside you.

Whatever you want, I’m tempted to say.

Whether he knows it or not, I’m completely in love with this guy. Head over heels, instalove, enamored—whatever you want to call it. I wipe icing on his abs, lapping it up as I crawl up his gorgeous torso.

Swipe a little on the corner of his mouth, our tongues rolling for a taste of the sweet sugar. He remains in a sitting position when I climb into his lap, align myself, and sink down onto his burgeoning erection.