How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours Page 24

  I’m affected by every one of her muttered coos.

  “You feel good.” I lightly caress her hip while rotating mine and land a kiss on her shoulder. She has a smattering of freckles, and I rest my lips there.

  Moaning, her arm comes up to cradle the back of my head while I palm her breast, raking her fingers along my scalp—damn, aren’t we the picture of domestic fucking bliss?

  “Sebastian.” Jameson gasps softly, pelvis beginning to rock, ever so slowly.

  Yes, baby, just like that.

  “You’re never wearing clothes to bed again,” my brusque voice informs her.

  “I’m not?”

  My head gives a definitive shake. “Now that I’ve seen you naked? Hell fucking no.”

  The words settle on the air; we’re quiet then, basking in each other. When Jameson rolls onto her back, she smiles up at me, satisfaction on her relaxed brows. “Does this mean you’re keeping me around for a while?”

  My chest swells with pride. I feel like I’ve done something right with us, something long lasting.

  Something permanent, and goddammit, I suck at this emotional bullshit, but baser instincts prevail and have me wrapping my arms around Jameson’s waist. Embracing her. Planting open-mouthed kisses on her neck. Resting my hands on her lower abdomen, the most womanly part of her body.

  The source of her feminine power.

  “Do you want to be around for a while?” I ask the crook of her neck.

  “You know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Her soft lips kiss the side of my forearm, and, as if she senses the change in me—the pensive silence—she tilts her neck toward my face.

  “Sebastian? I thought you were going to…” Jameson prompts, bright blue eyes coyly reading my expression, and she shifts position, reaching between our bodies. Enfolds my thick morning wood in her hands, squeezing. “Have your way with me this morning.”

  Up and down…up and down, my cock pulses in her hand with every even stroke until my thighs are shaking—the need for her is that urgent. That real.

  “Is that what you want? Me to have my way with you this morning?” The question comes out in a hiss when her hands round the tip of my dick, thumbs brushing the head.

  “Yes.”

  It takes me a few seconds to grab a condom, tear it open, and slide it on, position myself above her. Jameson’s eyes cloud, hazy with lust and desire when I slip in. She’s warm, dripping wet, and willing. So willing.

  Soft.

  Sexy.

  Hair pooled around her like some kind of goddamn angel, she watches me quietly, braced above her.

  We go methodically, painfully slowly, the only sound in the room our labored breathing and the headboard bang, bang, banging the wall with each and every languid thrust. The thumping sound gets me harder.

  Toes rooted and digging into the mattress, I glide in and out of her slick heat like it was made just for my cock.

  Jameson’s palm strokes my cheek and I bend my head, covering her lips with mine, breathe her in and out, then in again, like she’s the air I need to survive.

  Because she is.

  Somehow…

  Shit, this girl means everything to me.

  “Mmm, mmm.” She moans sweetly into my mouth when her body begins to climax, the muscles in her tight pussy contracting and squeezing the shit out of me in the best possible way.

  I come moments later, the shockwaves quivering my lower body.

  “Baby.” I speak the promise into her hair, lovingly stroking the damp locks away from her temple as I cradle her in my arms. “Jameson.”

  She is mine.

  Sebastian

  Zeke is waiting for me in the kitchen when I return from taking Jameson home, seated at the kitchen table wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a scowl.

  I walk past him, pull open the fridge, and take out the cream cheese. A bagel. A butter knife from the drawer.

  Zeke crosses his brawny arms and shifts in his seat. “I heard you fucking last night. All night.”

  I pop the bagel in the toaster and turn to face him, adopting his posture by crossing my own arms. “So? What the hell is your problem, dude? You brought home who-knows-how-many chicks last night after that scene at the party, and you’re pissed you had to listen to Jameson and me?” The toaster ticks, and I give it a shake and a smack to keep it working. “Get over it.”

  “If you’re pity fucking her out of some twisted obligation. I can find ten girls to bang you right now.”

  Pity fuck? What the—

  I flex my fingers to avoid clenching them into fists and stare down at my toasting bagel. “Could you stop calling it fucking?”

  Christ, now I’m starting to sound like a girl. Scowling at the thought, I pull the toaster cord out of the outlet then dig inside the toaster with my knife to retrieve the only carbs I’ll eat today.

  “You don’t like to call it fucking any more? You want something a little more flowery?” He says it with a sardonic laugh. “Don’t tell me—you call it making love.”

  “Actually, yeah.” I smear tons of cream cheese on my bagel and stuff a hunk in my mouth. Talk and chew. “That’s exactly what I’d call it, and I don’t need to be discussing it with you. My shit, what I do is none of your business.”

  “It used to be my business.”

  “Well it’s not any more, and someday, Zeke, I hope you find someone special who makes you change your mind.”

  If possible, his expression darkens. “Wow. This bitch has done a number on you—really messed you up, hasn’t she? Don’t you dare fucking let her inside your head man.”

  “Is that what this is about?” I ignore the fact that he just called Jameson a bitch because I know it will only lead to a physical altercation. “The team?”

  “If you lose a single match, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? You’re in no position to threaten me.”

  Zeke stares at me, the cold pallor of his gray eyes disarming. “I’m warning you now, Osborne. Don’t let this girl affect your place on the team.”

  This girl? Okay, now he’s just being dramatic, so in true Jameson fashion, I give my eyes a solid roll. “She won’t.”

  “She better not, because you barely fucking know her.”

  Because he’s wrong.

  I do know her.

  I know Jameson Clark better than I know him. I know that she only watches reality television and loves The Bachelor so much she’s in a fantasy league. I know she has two sisters and an eleven-year-old Schnauzer named Leopold. I know she wants stability and a good job, but she wants to be a mom even more. When she was twelve, she died her hair a putrid shade of green. When she was fifteen, she kissed some dude name Kevin behind the baseball dugouts and he tried to touch her boobs.

  Jameson knows why I want to be in human resources. She knows I don’t want to wrestle professionally, but will do it if the money is good, if any coaches want me before I get a “real job”. She’s texted with my sister, knows that when I was fourteen, I cried watching Marley & Me, and that I love dogs. And traveling. She knows family comes before friends, and how hard my parents work to pay for my education.

  She’s one of the few people who know I have a night job.

  I trust her.

  I—

  “Are you even listening to me jackoff?” Zeke’s voice cuts in. “You check that shit at the damn door, hear me?”

  This time, I do clench my hand into a fist. “You are seriously overstepping yourself my friend.”

  “Because you’re not fucking listening.”

  Setting the butter knife in the sink, I spin back on my heels to face him. “That girl, as you keep calling her, is my friend. My girlfriend. And if I ever catch you—or anyone—disrespecting her, I won’t hesitate to choose her over you.” I lean against the counter and speak slowly. “In fact, I’d chose Jameson over the entire team if I had to. So don’t test me.”

  “Ozzy, just listen to me—”

  “No, you listen to me: th
is conversation is over and we are never having it again.”

  Surprisingly, he lets it go, and because I’m not a pansy, I let him sit and stew in an awkward silence as I unemotionally finish my cold goddamn bagel before walking back to my room and slamming the door shut. I pace from the closet to the bed, hands behind my head, and take short, even breaths.

  They’re right; Zeke is a complete douchebag.

  I pull out my phone and text the only person who calms me.

  Oz: Hey pretty girl. Fancy yourself a study date?

  Jameson: On a Sunday?

  Oz: I really just need to be somewhere quiet.

  Jameson: <3 Yeah, okay. I could probably hit the books if that’s what you want. My lit paper isn’t going to write itself.

  Oz: I have practice today at 11:30, but I should be done around two. After that, I am all yours.

  Jameson: All mine?! I definitely like that sound of that. But you have to promise to behave yourself. None of that hanky panky stuff…

  Oz: Hanky panky? My grandma says shit like that.

  Jameson: Then I guess your grandma and I have something in common.

  Oz: Right. But now all I can think about is my Gran.

  Jameson: Consider that your punishment for years of misbehaving.

  Jameson

  “Where are you going dressed like that?”

  I glance down at my cuffed jeans, my Iowa sweatshirt, my brown half boots, then back up at Hayley, who’s stopped me in the doorway.

  Shoot. I almost made it out.

  “Why are you carrying books? It’s Sunday.”

  “I’m going to the library?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “On Sunday? Weren’t you just there?”

  Yes, but…

  “I mean…Oz has a test tomorrow and I have a paper due, so he thought we could study.” She looks horrified, so I explain. “The library is where we met, so I guess in a way, that makes it our special place.”

  Hayley cuts me off with a loud, giddy laugh. “Okay, okay. I get it now; study is the new word for screwing, isn’t it? And don’t you dare lie to me.”

  “Screwing! Who’s screwing who what now?” Another voice enters the conversation as Sydney breezes through the living room, pulling her blonde hair back into a high pony and securing it with a rubber band. “Girl, you know my ears perked right up when I heard that word.”

  I fidget uncomfortably, rocking back on the low heels of my boots. I haven’t exactly been…forthcoming about my budding relationship with Sebastian, and I’ve been dreading this conversation, purposefully withholding information. Afraid of what she’ll say, how she’ll judge me. Worried she’ll be pissed.

  Or worse, hurt.

  The very last place I want to have this conversation is the doorway while I’m on my way to meet him.

  I don’t handle things like this well, disappointing people I care about—in this case, my roommate, who admittedly gets infatuated with good-looking guys frequently, especially ones that play sports, are well-built, well-connected, and sought after by the entire female populous.

  Sebastian ticks all those boxes.

  And I know she thinks she has a crush on him.

  Daunting conversations like the one I’m about to have are one of the reasons I haven’t thrown myself into the college dating scene.

  Guys like Sebastian come with drama, drama, drama.

  But he’s been worth it, so worth it. So please, just shoot me now and put me out of my passive-aggressive existence because I do not want to hurt my friend.

  But I’m also not willing to give up what it took me so long to find.

  Hayley, unfortunately, beats me to it. “You know, James and Oz have been hooking up.”

  That is not what I was expecting, and so startled am I that I almost drop the books in my arms out of complete shock. My face flushes from complete embarrassment; never in my life has anyone strung my name and the words ‘hooking up’ together in a sentence.

  “I…w-we…we…” Oh god, I’m stuttering. “We’re not hooking up,” I finally manage, face a blazing inferno.

  Sydney’s face, well—that’s another story. First her eyebrows shoot up, entertained. But then…the words sink in. Oz. James. Hooking up.

  Her vivid blue eyes scan Hayley’s smug expression, digest my quick denial and flaming red cheeks. I swear she can see the stress rash developing across my chest through my shirt.

  “Of course you’re not hooking up with him.” Sydney blows out a puff of air and flips her hair in Hayley’s direction. “James doesn’t do hookups; everyone knows that.”

  I don’t even have the fortitude to be insulted by her tone.

  Our other roommate demurs angelically, “You’re right, I shouldn’t have used the term hookup. They’re dating, aren’t you James?”

  “I…”

  But Hayley doesn’t stop, hands flailing about her as she speaks. “He brought her to that fraternity party you missed last weekend when you went home. You should have seen him, totally glued to her side the entire night. Fetched things for her like a puppy dog. So cute.”

  “Uh…” It’s all I can say, so bad at this someone should take away my girl card because Lord knows my backbone has disappeared.

  “Then he hauled her off early. Well, because of that fight with that big wrestler—you went back to his place, didn’t you? ’Cause I know you didn’t come home.” She snickers and I feel sick, like I’m gonna vom all over Hayley’s trendy platform wedges.

  Sydney’s face scrunches up, whether from distaste or disappointment, it’s impossible to tell. “James, for real?”

  “I mean…” I shrug my shoulders. “Yeah?”

  My feet shift beneath me, the books in my arms becoming dead weight.

  Sydney glares at Hayley then turns her wounded stare on me. “Why didn’t you tell me, James? Why would you let me go out with him if you liked him?”

  Right. I did do that…

  “Why wouldn’t you have said something? I feel like such a jerk.”

  Because I was scared and embarrassed and a fool. Because I wasted time when I could have been spending it with Sebastian instead of avoiding him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sydney throws her hands up, exasperated. “James, you’re the one who said he was un-dateable. You’re the one who said all he did was sleep around. You’re the one who said—”

  “I know what I said, Sydney! I was wrong.”

  Sydney—sensitive, understanding Sydney—shows me the reason why she’s beautiful both inside and out. “God, I feel like such an idiot—I had no idea you liked him.”

  And now I feel like an idiot because she’s the one apologizing when I’m the one who—

  “If he’s what makes you happy… Just don’t let him break your heart. Don’t let him do to you what you told me he would do.”

  And now I’m cringing because the words come back to me verbatim: The guy screws everyone…I saw him getting a hand-job at a party in the hallway…It’s probably a good idea to stay away from a guy like that, no matter how good looking he is…No doubt he’s run out of room on his bedpost for notches…

  Blushing, I look down at the floor, embarrassed to have judged Sebastian before I knew him, and embarrassed to have kept my budding relationship from one of my best friends.

  I’m the A-hole here.

  “I won’t let him hurt me.” Then, to myself, I add, And I won’t hurt him.

  Sid eyes my outfit. “Casual study date then?”

  “Sort of.” I bite down on my lower lip and readjust my books. “I think something might be bothering him, so…”

  “Any chance you’re going out with us tonight? I have a new pair of jeans I want you to see.”

  I smirk. “Want to borrow a cardigan to go with them?”

  “Heck no.”

  Sebastian

  Jameson is a sight for sore eyes, and I drink her in from head to toe when she slips silently through the door of our study room on the third floor of the libra
ry, the study room at the end of a long row of law school periodicals, research, and publications.

  It’s quiet, relaxed, and isolated.

  Emphasis on isolated.

  I rise to greet her, skirting around the long conference table, and gently take the books from her hands. Place them on the table. Place my hands at her waist and lean in for a kiss. Place my hands on her ass and give her butt cheeks a squeeze.

  “Well that’s a fine hello.” She laughs, swatting at my hands to create some distance. “You said we were going to study, Mr. Grabby Hands.”

  “Yeah but your ass has gravitational pull—I’m drawn to it like a magnet. Can’t keep my hands off.”

  She swats at me again. “I swear to god, Oz, if you keep manhandling me like this, we’re never going to get anything done.”

  Reluctantly I back away and give her berth. “You’re right; I didn’t bring you here to accost you. The imprint of your ass on my hand will have to tide me over for the next hour.”

  “You’re a raging hormone.” Jameson sits, rearranging her study materials. She aligns her pens and pencils, pushing each one into place with the tip of her finger, lining them up as if they have a permanent place on the table. Calculator on the right. Computer in the center of her workspace.

  She takes a small stack of notebooks out of her bag, shuffling them. Spreads them out next to the pens like a fan.

  Watching her meticulously fuss over her school supplies turns me on.

  Glumly, I hang my head. “I know. It’s gotten worse since you let me in your pants. Bad move on your part.”

  I join her at the table and soon, we’re both focused on our studies. Every so often I’m distracted by the sound of Jameson’s sighs, her little hums of concentration. The tapping of her pen against the tabletop.

  “Stop watching me,” she mumbles without looking up.

  “I’m not,” I argue.

  But I am.

  “You’ve been watching me for the past twenty-five minutes. I timed it.” Her pen scribbles in a black composition notebook and after finishing writing whatever it is she’s writing, she looks up. Sets down the pen. Crosses her hands in front of her. “Something’s bothering you.”