The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

He swears too much.

He isn’t nice.

He isn’t sweet.

He isn’t kind.

Or generous with words. Or affection.

But he’s reliable. Dependable. And he was there for me tonight. I know he was watching out for me, or he wouldn’t have seen that guy back me into a dark, back corner of the bar.

And thank god he was.

I don’t know what I would have done.

Screamed bloody murder, maybe? Would anyone have heard me over the noise? The music? The packed crowd?

Winnie says Zeke is “a project”, one that’s probably more work than he’s worth, with no guaranteeing the outcome. The thing is, I can’t fool my heart into thinking he’s not worth it, even when my head is telling me he isn’t.

I know Zeke is an asshole.

I know he’s crude and unsuitable.

Zeke might be brutal, but at least he’s brutally honest, and the next thing I know, he’s taking my hand, leading me down the hallway.

I let him lead me.

Floating down the hall to the bedroom, I’m light, a million worries lifting off my shoulders: self-doubt. Self-consciousness. The fear that he doesn’t like me back. The desperation to be loveable that took root the day my parents died and further overtook me when my aunt and uncle moved away.

The fear that I’m not sexy because I stutter.

Zeke Daniels doesn’t just want sex; he wants something more—I feel it in my heart. He’s seeking something—the same thing I am.

Something permanent.

Constant and stable, and no one will convince me otherwise.

“Violet, I wouldn’t—I don’t want you to think I have any clue what I’m doing. Because I don’t. I have no idea why the hell I stopped that car in the middle of the damn road, I just…” He releases my hand, closing the door to his bedroom.

Runs his fingers through his black hair.

“Do you know what I’m trying to tell you?”

“No.” I give my head a little shake. “I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

Zeke walks to the far side of the room, pacing back. And forth. Back. And forth. “Shit, I know I’m going to fuck this up.”

“What are you going to fuck up?”

He laughs then, a loud, rumbling laugh. “It cracks me up when you say a swear word. It sounds so weird.”

He stops pacing, stands in front of me. Reaches up and captures my face in the palms of his hands. Strokes my cheekbones with his thumbs. “God you’re fucking adorable.”

My lashes flutter. “Thank you.”

“You’re beautiful, Violet. I think you’re beautiful.” His head is lowered, our lips inches apart. “You’re too sweet for me, you know that right? I’m such an asshole.”

“I know.” The whisper is more of a sigh.

His steely gaze studies me a few heartbeats, warm hands still caressing my face. “What are we doing?”

I can’t answer; he’s being way too nice. So unexpectedly tender.

“Do you respect me?” I ask quietly.

He nods, our foreheads touching. “More than anyone.”

I believe him.

“Are we friends?” I ask, lifting my hands to grasp his wrists.

“Yes. You’re one of my best friends.”

I believe that, too.

“I am?”

“Yes,” he whispers, voice gravely. “Even though I don’t deserve it, you’re one of the good ones, Violet DeLuca, and I don’t have a clue what you’re doing here in this room with me.”

I swallow the lump forming in my throat, nose tingling from his words. His words.

His words, simple as they are, are beautiful words.

A tear escapes the corner of my eyes, but he catches it with his thumb. “Don’t cry, Pix.”

“I-I can’t help it, you’re being so sweet. It’s so weird.”

“You know I wouldn’t be saying any of this to you if it wasn’t true.” His voice is raw with emotion, too, his lips brushing mine in a shocking jolt of heat. His breath is hot. He tastes like beer and peppermint gum. “Violet.”

Zeke’s hands don’t leave my face, not until I release the hold I have on his wrists and touch his firm chest. His hard pecs. Drag my flattened palms along the planes of his shirt, letting the pads of my fingers memorize the lines.

His body is so strong. So impossibly unrelenting, in top physical form.

I release the top button of his shirt. Then another, and another, until his lips pull back, brows raised. “Are you undressing me?”

“Yes, I think so. Please stop talking—I don’t want to l-lose my courage.”

A chuckle. “Yes ma’am.”

Closes in for another kiss.

Tongue.

My hands.

His body.

I just want to touch it.

See it.

All of it.

Insatiably curious, I part the collar of his shirt, sliding my hands inside, over his warm skin with a moan—is that his moan or mine? Zeke has hair on his chest, a light smattering on his pectoral muscles and sternum. Black and soft, I explore it, gently running my fingers across the sparse hair.

Finish unbuttoning the shirt. Spread it wide. Push it down over his broad shoulders. He shrugs out of it, watching it land on the hardwood floor at our feet in a heap.

His heated, liquid gaze is positively on fire, and it’s directed at me.

I want to see every part of him, so I break our kiss, doing a short walk around him, eyes consuming the sight of his naked upper torso. Devour his graceful collarbone. His sinewy physique.