The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

A whisper.

A sigh.

Her buttons dig deeper still into my chest when she arches higher on her tiptoes to rest her lips against the outside corner of my mouth.

Rests them there, inhaling. Presses those lips to one side, then the other.

My bottom lip.

Gives my cupid’s bow a quick flick of the tongue.

My nostrils flare as I stand, ramrod straight and stiff, waiting…waiting until Jameson pulls back, her smooth hands lingering, never leaving my person, blue eyes memorizing every detail of my face.

Debating.

My dark, hawk-like gaze follows the teeth that drag over her lower lip and pull, follow the tongue darting out to moisten her mouth.

I don’t move a single muscle in my body, but can’t help goading her. “I don’t have all day here.”

“Shhhh,” she admonishes. “Quiet please. When you talk, it makes me want to slap some sense into you.”

Her pink mouth hovers just a breath away, teasing, the air between us growing oddly combustible. The energy between our lips emits a slight electric sizzle that I’ll lie in bed questioning later—but for now, my dick twitches inside my dark jeans and my fists clench and unclench at my sides, fighting to gain some control of the situation.

It proves impossible.

My legs get restless, and suddenly adrenaline is coursing through my entire body. I could do a hundred laps around campus—which is so fucking ridiculous.

She’s not even my usual type—blonde, stupid, and easy.

She’s a nobody, and I don’t screw nobodies.

Not usually.

Lips pursed, she finally presses them over mine.

Sighs.

My lips part and like a good girl, she slides her tongue unhurriedly inside.

I’m hard. So fucking hard.

Jameson tastes fresh—like peppermint gum and strawberries—and suddenly I find my hands circling her slim waist, pulling her flush to my body so I can grind my erection into her thigh as our lips part. Farther. My tongue seeks its way inside...all the way inside.

As deep as a lifeline.

Within seconds we’re making out like unsupervised high school students in their parents’ basement, right in the middle of the damn library, surrounded by our peers.

I groan when she bites my bottom lip then sucks on it.

From behind, I hear my asshole teammates at the table across the room catcalling—not loudly enough that the librarian will come over, but loud enough that Jameson breaks the kiss, pushing back on my solid rock of a heaving chest with a moan, distancing herself, hand poised at her lips.

After a few steadying breaths, she breathily asks, “Was that good enough for a payday? Satisfied now?”

Fuck no. “I won’t be satisfied until I’m fucking you on a table in a study room.” I grapple for her hand. “Come on.”

Her eyes widen in surprise when I reach forward to grab her arms. Intention: pull her back in for another kiss. Reality: she evades me, sidestepping away, her ass hitting the table, jostling the lamp, and knocking her pens off the edge with a clatter. An unsteady hand flies to her swollen lips, gently caressing them with the pads of her fingertips.

“I’m not that kind of girl.”

My blazing eyes take her in, head to toe: jeans, white tee, black cardigan, gleaming pearls.

Pearls. Jesus H. Christ.

“Then what kind of girl are you? One that’s not into having a good time? Or are you just a tease?”

I visualize the scene with her in my mind. Haphazardly shoving our books off the table to the floor. Clearing it off so I can set her on the edge. Slide off her jeans. Caress her in places…all over. Inside places with my dick. Her clit while I watch her come, spread out on the study room table.

“You won your bet,” James begins slowly, smoothing a hand down her ponytail. “You’ve won your money, and I’ve mollified my curiosity.” Her big blue eyes, guarded now, roam to the table where Zeke and Dylan sit, watching. “You should go. Your friends are waiting.”

I give a jerky nod, my hand reaching down to dramatically adjust the hard-on in my pants. “Thanks for the blue balls.”

Her lip twitches. “You’re welcome.”

I give her another onceover, taking her in from head to toe, seeing her differently than I did ten minutes ago. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone from straitlaced and unadventurous to sassy and weirdly erotic.

Damn shame she’s not giving it up.

Finally, I turn, presenting her with my back before striding away, one heavy footfall after the other, toward my friends. I get halfway across the library when her bubbly little voice rings out, a soft beckoning.

“Hey Oz?”

I stop.

Instead of facing her, I turn my head only a fraction, presenting her with just my profile. “What.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds—so quiet my morbid curiosity forces me to turn. Jameson stands in the soft lamp light in the dim corner, her eyes sparkling with wit and humor.

Captivated, my brows raise impatiently. “Well?”

“A little friendly advice?” Her pouty lips part and I’m drawn to them as they mutter, “Never judge a girl by her cardigan,” just loud enough for me to hear.

That gives me pause. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I don’t need it.”

Two hours and twenty minutes later, that quietly uttered advice is all I can think about: never judge a girl by her cardigan.

Never judge a girl by her cardigan.

What the hell does that even mean?