The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

“All right.”

“Not just physically, Zeke. Anyone can keep it in their pants if they try hard enough. I’m talking about being respectful of me even when we’re not together.”

“Are you talking about not letting chicks grab my junk?”

“Girls do that?”

Is she for real? How did she not know this? “Uh, yeah.”

She scowls up at me.

“Violet, you do realize I’m a conquest to most girls who flirt with me, not an actual candidate for a relationship, right?”

“G-Girls seriously grab your…you know?”

“Dick? Yeah. At parties and shit—it’s the wrestling singlets. Obviously you can see the whole full frontal, and some girls consider that an invitation to get handsy. I don’t know why anyone considers grabbing a dude’s nuts through his jeans sexy.” I blink down at her. “Unless it was you. You can grab them any time you want.”

She snickers. “I will not be grabbing your nuts.”

“Hey, hey, hey now, don’t be so hasty,” I tease, grinning.

Violet stops smiling, suddenly serious. The tips of her fingers lovingly cross my lips. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”

No.

I get told I’m hot by random girls. I get told I’m pretty by my teammates when they’re fucking with me, handsome by my mother on those rare occasions she hosts a holiday and demands I come home.

Beautiful? That’s a first.

Beautiful sounds like more.

More of everything.

She’s not just calling me beautiful, she’s…

Shit, I don’t know what the hell I’m saying; Violet is turning me into a fucking pansy. I used to be a hard ass, and now I’m talking about feelings and all that other bullshit. Soon she’s going to have me holding babies and volunteering with old people, I just fucking know it.

Whatever.

I’d do it.

I’d do it just to see those eyes of hers light up. I’d do it because when her small, slender body is pressed against mine, mine lights on fire. I could get used to these feelings, could get high now that I know how fast my heart beats when she’s near.

“Violet,” I say, almost breathlessly.

“Yes?”

I let the open flat of my hand graze her shoulder, down her arm, over the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Take her hand, dragging it to my chest. Flatten her palm against my violently pounding heart.

Wordlessly.

Violet shifts, drawing away. Sitting up, she climbs in my lap, facing me, and settles down, one leg on either side of my hips. Slides her palms up my hard pec muscles, then down my torso, grasping the hem of my hooded sweatshirt. Burying her hands inside. Hauling the hem up my abs. We pull it off together. I’m wearing a cutoff shirt underneath, and in short time, we remove that, too.

Together.

Moments later, I watch her hands disappear between us to drag her yellow sweatshirt up, over her head, and toss it to the floor.

Except for her sheer, lacey bra, we’re both naked from the waist up.

Those delicate hands of hers glide slowly along my bare shoulders. Down my deltoids. Over the smooth expanse of my clavicle, index finger drawing along the planes of my naked torso, committing every inch to memory.

Her palms brace the column of my corded neck. Drift slowly behind to my nape, thumbs fiddling with the hair that could probably use a trim. Back down my chest, sliding through the hair on my sternum. Traces my nipples.

It gives me goose bumps.

Gets me hard.

She leans in close, so close her small breasts press against my chest, and rains kisses on my neck. Along my collarbone.

It feels so fucking good.

Enveloping her tiny waist with my arms, I drag her close, positioning us so all our best parts are aligned.

Skin on skin, my hands skim her spine.

My neck bends forward and I drop my forehead so ours touch. Our noses. Our breaths.

“Violet?” I whisper.

“Yes?” she whispers back.

“I love you.”

It’s a confession.

Closing my eyes, I say it again. “I love you Violet.”

A prayer.

Seconds pass. Stretch out.

Moments of silence.

Then, “I love you, too.”

She draws back to look at me, heavy lidded eyes softening, dampening at the corners, bottom lip trembling. When she squeezes her eyes shut and a tear slips down her cheek, I take her face in my hands, cupping her chin in my hardened, massive palms.

Kiss her mouth. “I’m in love with you.”

I don’t know what else to say, want to keep repeating the words. Suddenly, all these emotions and shit I’ve kept to myself are emerging as heart emojis, sappy love songs, and chick flicks. I look at Violet and all I want to do is spout mamby pamby love bullshit. Roll around on the bed and cuddle with her and crap.

She’s so cute.

So fucking gorgeous.

So sexy.

I love her.

How many times am I allowed to say it before sounding like a douchebag? I’ll have to ask Oz.

“You make me…” There’s that lump in my throat making it almost impossible to get the words out. “I want to make you happy.”

Oh my god, listen to me.

“You do.”

When our tongues meet, my lips tingle, dick twitches. Everything about this feels…new. Different somehow.

Violet’s hands reach for my sweatpants, disappearing into the elastic waistband. Tugging. Pulling. Without breaking our kiss, I shove them down my hips. Kick them off and onto the floor, along with my boxers.