The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“My hand hurts,” I whimper, cradling it like a baby.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

I do. I do want him to kiss it and make it better, so I step toward him, palm extended. “Be gentle.”

“Here, let me see it.” He drops his helmet to the pavement, moving toward me with a purposeful stride, taking my hand in his. “Poor baby.”

Oz makes a grand show of examining my hand, my fingers, then soothes his palm up my goose bump-covered arm, back down again. When he lowers his head and drags his nose along the delicate skin of my inner wrist, my eyelids flutter closed.

When his lips find my pulse, I moan.

“Poor.” Kiss. “Poor.” Kiss. “Baby.” One more kiss and he lifts his head. Winks. “Be more careful next time. When I have you, I want you in one piece.”

“It was my special brand of flirting.” No doubt my expression is wobbly. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

A slow smile creeps across his face and he dips, reaching for my arm. Drags me closer by the wrist he’s just branded with his lips. Drags my flattened palm over his stomach and over his hard abdomen.

“Feel these abs?”

“Yes.”

“Rock. Solid.” He moves that palm over the flat plane of his six-pack, the muscles constricting under my feather-light touch. His arm slides around my waist as he moves my hand up over his firm pecs. Up over his right shoulder. Forces me to step even closer. “You can’t hurt me, James.”

You can’t hurt me.

Flirtatious words with a bewildering wallop of fiction.

Those four words cause me to look up into his dark, expressive eyes. His mouth has a smile tugging on it but…those sullen eyes? Those eyes are saying something else completely: you can hurt me.

All this time I was worried about myself and my own heart, never once stopping to consider that I could hurt him. How selfish.

Shamefaced, my head drops for a split second, considering his bald-faced lie. He’s lying. This behemoth, mountain of a guy, gazing down at me with jokes and smiles and laughter, is lying.

“You really do like me,” I say breathily, the words full of wonder.

“You like me,” he breathes back.

“But you like me, like me,” I challenge like a ten-year-old on the playground. “Do you have a crush on…my cardigans, Sebastian?”

I get an eye roll for that one. “Get over yourself, Clark.”

Oz tilts his head to study me, one hand rising between our two bodies to cup my chin. Leans in. Lands his mouth squarely on mine and presses gently as his other large palm squeezes my butt cheek. “Pick up the bat, slacker.”

“But it’s heavy,” I complain when he hands me the wooden Louisville Slugger. “My arms are like noodles.”

“Stop stalling, Clark. Get to it.” He gives my ass another squeeze then a light tap before nudging me toward a yellow line drawn on the pavement where I should take my mark.

I giggle like a schoolgirl and take the wooden baseball bat from his outstretched hand.

“Check your helmet,” he pesters. “Make sure it’s on straight. I don’t need you getting a concussion.”

I straighten the helmet, my long hair swept to one side. “Better. Okay, I’m ready, Coach.”

Oz nods and crosses his arms, satisfied I’ve properly cross-checked my equipment, then begins rapidly doling out instructions.

Spread your legs. Bend at the knee. Elbows out. Eyes on the ball.

Swing at everything.

“Got it?”

“Got it.”

The white ball flies out of the machine, whizzing past me at warp-like speed. It hits the canvas backdrop with a hollow thump, drops to the ground, and rolls a few feet before stopping at the chain-link fence.

Too late, I swing.

“Damn. Don’t got it,” I joke.

Oz laughs, walking a few feet to the green mechanical box hanging on the fence, and opens the lid. Turns a few dials, snaps the lid closed. “That might have been a little too fast for a beginner. I adjusted the speed.”

“I hope it’s slower than the rate at which girls fall into bed with Zeke Daniels,” I drawl, taking the proper stance while anticipating the next pitch. “Because if that’s the case, I’m screwed.”

“You’re funny.”

“Why thank you.” I lift the bat, bend my elbows, and stick my butt out, glancing at the nude wedges strapped to my feet. At the hot pink toenails playing peekaboo. At my fitted jeans and aqua blue silk top.

The delicate turquoise necklace sways between my breasts when I glance over at Oz. “You could have warned me you were bringing me here so I wouldn’t wear heels; it would’ve been the polite thing for a gentleman to do.”

He leans against the chain-link fence. “I’ve always preferred the element of surprise.”

“But I wouldn’t have worn this.”

One thick eyebrow crooks over eyes fastened on my denim-clad rump. “Exactly.”

The gorgeous ass grins at me and I roll my eyes. “Let’s get this show on the road and put an end to my misery.”

Ball after ball shoots out of the machine; I swing and swing and swing and miss every ball flying past me with a whoosh at alarmingly rapid speeds.

Frustrated by my incredible suckage, I stomp a foot. “Dammit, Sebastian! Are you going to help me or not?”

The bastard grins. “Only if you insist.”