The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

He blinks.

Blinks again.

I smile.

He scowls.

But he also doesn’t reject the idea.

I take this as a good sign and plop down next to him on the couch, reach behind me to grab a blanket, and settle in. “Anything on, or should we pick a DVD?”

“I found a few things. The Walking Dead, a few new releases. True Blood, and, uh…Outlander.”

I cannot keep the astonishment out of my voice. “I’m sorry, did you just say you’re willing to watch Outlander?”

It’s based on a historical romance novel set in the highlands of Scotland; the main character time travels back to the 1700s and falls in love with a strapping Scott. It’s one of my favorite books, and I’ve been wanting to binge watch the series.

“Yes.” He’s practically glowering with indignation. “I know when you were in my bedroom you were scoping out all my European history books and shit—don’t act like you weren’t.”

“I totally was, I’m just surprised you’d want to watch Outlander. I’d love to watch it if you want to.”

He squints at me. “That depends; what episode are you on?”

“The episode right before she marries the Scotsman? I think.”

“What! That’s as far as you got?” I’ve never seen him so animated. “You’re an entire two seasons behind! You’re only at The Garrison Commander episode? Ugh.”

Seriously, I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to him go on about this. He’s truly disgusted with me.

It’s hilarious. He’s hilarious.

Not ha ha funny, but oddly playful in his own way.

An enigma.

“Hey now, don’t get all crazy guilt-tripping me. I don’t have a lot of free time to watch TV!”

Both of us are laughing now, and the grin on his face—I want to kiss it off of him. Grab his face and kiss it all over. He’s adorable.

So handsome.

Straight white teeth, square jawline completely covered in five o’clock shadow—he’s stunning. And that smile?

Guh. Where does he always hide it?

It’s a crime against humanity.

“Fine, we’ll start at the wedding.” His beefy arm rises, clicking the remote toward the television, flying through the menu selection until he arrives at Outlander. Chooses season one. Chooses episode: The Wedding.

Click, click, click goes the remote.

“Obviously I watch a lot of TV.” He chuckles. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

“That’s surprising. When do you have time with your busy social schedule?”

“My busy social schedule? Goddamn you’re cute.” He gives me a sidelong glance, still pointing the remote control at the TV. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m the last person people think of when they hear the word social.”

“I-I—”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t just insult me. Let’s just watch the show, although, I should warn you—spoiler alert!—there’s some tits and ass.”

“T-Tits and ass?” I repeat, blushing. I mean, what’s worse than stuttering out the word tits in front of a handsome boy? Nothing.

Nothing is worse.

“Nudity,” he clarifies. “You okay with that?”

“Okay with nudity? Sure.”

Zeke

I have a hard-on.

Not the soft, chubby promise of one or the tingling stirrings—this is a raging boner.

My grip on Violet’s plaid blanket tightens when the Scotsman Jamie Frasier and his wife Claire begin fucking on screen. She’s on top, riding him—you know, because he’s a virgin—in a chair, sinking down onto his erection, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.

I chance a glance at Violet; I’ve never seen her face so flush, and I’ve embarrassed her plenty in the few weeks we’ve been hanging out.

“I-Is it hot in here?” she mutters under her breath, fanning herself by yanking on the collar of her black t-shirt.

“Yeah it’s fucking hot in here.” And getting warmer with every passing second.

“Should I open a window?” I volunteer, half off the couch and walking to the bank of windows at the front of the room before she can reply. I adjust the stiff dick in my pants, easing it to the side of my thigh before unlatching the lock and sliding my hands under the frame, pulling upward.

I crack the window a good nine inches—the length of my throbbing cock—wipe a set of sweaty palms over my pants, and yank my shirt down over my crotch.

Violet misses me gimping it back to the couch because her eyes are glued to the horny Highlanders banging on the television, in high def and Technicolor.

I ease myself back down, and despite the rising temperature in the room, grapple for the blanket and spread it across my lap, adding a throw pillow on top like a teenage boy afraid to be caught whacking it by his mother.

Normally I wouldn’t give a shit if some chick saw my boner, but this is Violet—I don’t want her to feel violated or whatever. I want her to feel safe with me, not like I’m going to fucking jump her with my giant cock.

On screen, Claire Frasier has just spread herself wide on the bed, and the Highland ginger Jamie is slowly scaling lower on her body. Nipples pointy and wet from his mouth. Head tipped back. Lips parted, sounds coming out of them both while he goes down on her.

This was such a bad idea.

I fucking knew the wedding episode had sex in it; I just didn’t remember it being this graphic.