The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

So lost in thought, it barely registers when the door flies open, catching me off guard, steam rising out from behind him. Rhett’s large physique is framed in the door, sinewy upper torso still damp. Smooth chest, broad shoulders.

Sleep pants. No shirt.

His eyes widen at my semi-nudity, attach to my boobs. “Shit.”

I’m not wearing a shirt. My palms fly to cover my bare chest.

“Jesus Laurel, I’m so sorry.”

My heart thumps at a thousand beats per minute. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, remember?” I ask, gently reminding him about the dry humping we did in my car.

I cover myself with one arm while I pluck the tank top up off the bed, turn my back on him, and yank it on over my head.

I’m tall, but not nearly as tall as Rhett, and feel slightly vulnerable standing before him in just a tank and panties, the half-dressed state a reminder of the precarious status of our relationship.

He crosses his toned arms, eyes falling on the front of my thin shirt. I know he can see my nipples through the fabric.

I run a hand through my hair, letting his gaze run the length of my body.

“Mind if I brush my teeth?”

“Oh shit, yeah. I have to do that, too.”

We stand, side by side at the sink, sharing toothpaste and real estate in the bathroom. Every cell in my nervous system aware of the heat he’s throwing off. Eyes focused on every one of the flexed muscles in his reflection in the mirror as he works the toothbrush around his mouth.

Brush. Spit. Brush.

I run the water, rinsing. Brush. Spit.

It’s weird doing this with him, intimate somehow.

Plus, I’m in my underwear, trying to drive him wild with lust, furtively watching him brush his teeth—his white, straight, beautiful teeth that I want nipping my bare skin.

God, listen to me.

I stroke my purple toothbrush a few more times, liberally swiping my tongue and gums. Spit. Wash my brush off, setting it on the porcelain sink. Run a hand behind my neck, sweeping my bright red hair over one shoulder.

Meet his brown eyes in the mirror.

He stands, toothbrush suspended in his clenched hand, staring at my reflection, eyes scanning my face, softening at the corners.

“You know, when I first saw you with…you know, no clothes on, I thought you’d be covered in freckles.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I thought all redheads had freckles.”

“Nope.” I eyeball myself in the glass, raising an arm for inspection. “Probably the only ginger I know without them.”

“Where do you get it from?”

“My mom has red hair.”

“Sister?”

“Oh, totally.”

“Huh.” He sets his toothbrush on the edge of the sink.

His hair is already beginning to dry, curling up at the ends. It’s so gosh darn cute brushed off to the side, unlike its usual scruffy mop.

Sigh.

Rhett

I can barely take my eyes off Laurel, though I’m doing my fucking best not to ogle her. In that see-through tank top and those panties? It’s damn near impossible.

She might as well be naked.

I hit the light when we’re done in the bathroom, padding across the hardwood floor on bare feet, conscious she’s watching my every move. Take my dirty clothes from the foot of the bed, stash them on a chair in the corner so they’re out of the way.

“I put your hat on the dresser for you,” she softly supplies. “I tried it on.”

My face flushes. “You did, huh?”

“Yeah. I looked cute.”

I bet she did.

I bet if I kissed her, she’d kiss me back.

Eyes on her face, not on her boobs, eyes on her face, not on her boobs.

I feel the waistband of my pants for pockets, desperate to occupy my hands. I’ve turned into a ball of nervous fucking energy. “So, obviously this bed is free—and the one next door. Where do you want to sleep?”

“Honestly? I want to sleep wherever you sleep.”

“You want to sleep in the same bed?” Shut the fuck up, idiot! I sound like I’m arguing with her—what fucking moron argues about sharing a bed with a pretty girl? Me.

“I mean, won’t you be lonely in here all by yourself?”

“I’ll probably pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.”

Why am I still talking?

Her face falls, and Jesus, why did I say that? I’ve turned into my damn roommate, who never says the right fucking things.

“Okay, well…I guess I’ll take the room next door.” When she turns for the door, slowly, like she’s walking to her untimely death, I let my gaze wander to her slim back. Let it travel down the curve of her spine. The curve of her tight ass, round globes of pale skin playing peekaboo with the delicate panties up her ass crack.

She pauses at the threshold, hand resting on the wood. “Good night.”

I swallow. “Good night.”

“Tonight was…”

“Nice?”

“Yeah.”

Fuck, why can’t I ask her to stay? Climb into the bed and wrap us both up in the blankets, pull her on top of me and kiss her senseless?

Because I have no game.

I am not my friends.

“Bonne nuit, Laurel,” I murmur.

Her breath hitches and she narrows her blue eyes in my direction. “I said don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Speak to me in French.”

“You don’t like it?”

“You know I do.” She nods. “I do like it.”

“Je ne comprends pas…” I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything about girls, or relationships, or what I’m supposed to be doing right fucking now.

I’m floundering.

She turns to face me, making her way across the room. Stands in front of me.

“Say, I think it sounds beautiful.” She’s whispering, our bodies inches apart.

“Je pense que tu es belle,” I whisper back. I think you’re beautiful.

“Now say, I don’t want you in the next room.”

“Je ne te veux pas dans l’ autre chambre,” I repeat. “Restez avec moi.” Stay with me.

Her breasts brush my chest, the pad of her index finger tracing the contour of my upper lip.

“You have a beautiful mouth.”

“Toi aussi.” So do you.

I feel my neck bow. Head bent down. Shoulders sag, body relaxed.

“Je te veux plus que n’importe quoi que j’avais voulu dans ma vie.” I want you more than anything I’ve wanted in my entire fucking life.

“Yes.” Laurel’s whisper hits me in the groin at the same time my mouth lowers, lips parting breathlessly. I’m already panting. Anxious. Excited.

Aroused.

Our foreheads touch.

Fingers entwine.

With my head bowed, I have a clear shot down her shirt, straight into her cleavage. The tips of her nipples, hard, rubbing against her white tank.

I blow out a breath, squeeze her hands.

Controlled.

When she moves closer into my space, breasts brushing my hard pecs, I can barely stand it. Lose all brain function when she rubs those gorgeous tits against me, lifting her chin.

Nudges me with her nose until we’re eye to eye.

“Rhett.” She speaks breathlessly. “Kiss me good night.”

We’re both shaking, my entire body invested in this moment. I know hers is too by the way her shoulders give a tiny quake when I rest my lips on hers.

Press them there, undemanding.

Her mouth is pliant, lips full and pouty.

Tongue softly touching mine.

I release her hands and raise mine to her face. Cup that beautiful jawline of hers in my huge hands, planting a kiss on her so fully I feel it all the way to my fucking toes. Pull back so I can study her face.

Her blue eyes blaze back at me, bright as her hair.

“Stay with me.” Restez avec moi.

Please.

Laurel nods once, decisive.

When I take my hands off her body, she drags me to the left side of the bed. Peels back the covers and slides in, hair fanned out across the forest green sheets, practically glowing.

I stare down at her. “I have no idea what I’m fucking doing.”