The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“Yeah, seriously.”

“That’s a dude’s name.”

“I know.” We both study her from across the room. “But it suits her.”

“Home girl got class,” Pitwell observes over the top of his beer.

“She sure does.”

“Still wondering how she ended up with a brother like you, are you?”

“Every day.”

“Well good for you, man.” He looks her over. “She sure is a pretty little thing.”

A nod. “Sure is.”

“She can’t keep her eyes off you, brah. You should go over there, lay claim to that shit.”

His hand clamping down on my shoulder propels me forward. I cross the room with long, purposeful strides, making it to Jameson’s side in fifteen footsteps flat. Approach her from behind. Wrap my arms around her waist, lacing my fingers just under her breasts, lips pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck while giving Parker and Allison a nod. “What was that look you were giving me from across the room?” I ask into the shell of her ear.

She snuggles, sagging into me, but rolls her eyes. “Pfft, what look?”

“You know the look.”

Jameson taps a finger to her chin. “You’ll have to be more specific. Was it my ‘I’m thirsty and need another drink’ look, or my ‘I’m undressing Sebastian with my eyes’ look?”

“Yes.” Ignoring Parker and Allison, I can’t keep my hands off her and I drag them down her ribcage, settling them at the empty belt loops of her jeans. Tug and pull closer.

She makes no attempt to pull away, but rather, seems to melt into me.

Getting her into bed later will be a piece of cake.

“Fine, then yes. Guilty,” she teases. “It’s your fault for dragging me here—I just assumed I’d be spending tonight in pajamas watching a movie.”

“So what you’re saying is, you want to go back to bed?” I purr low in her ear so only she can hear me—not that anyone would be able hear us anyway, not with the music blasting through the surround sound, high-def speakers. The room practically vibrates.

Her laugh curls my toes. “Oh god, no—my crotch can’t handle any more Sebastian Osborne.”

“Wanna make a bet?”

This earns me another laugh; soft and sexy, her glossy hair beckons. I lift a hand to run my palm down the locks, fingers intimately straining through each satiny strand like sand through an hourglass.

Fuck, even her hair makes me hard.

I tug at the waistband of her jeans impatiently. “Come on, let’s get out of here and go back to my place before my roommates get home.”

I’m a young, randy, walking erection; she can hardly fault me for that. Jameson’s lips part to refute—or agree—but her response is cut off by her damn roommate, whose timing is for shit.

“This party is fun!” Allison banters shrilly, oblivious to the negotiations taking place, and frustrated, I grumble my displeasure into Jameson’s hair.

“Make her go away.”

“Thanks for the tickets to your meet the last week Oz. I had a great time, didn’t I James?” She nudges Jameson with her elbow—hard—prompting her. “They were amazing seats. Weren’t they amazing seats James?”

Great. She’s drunk.

Speaking of drunk, obnoxious friends—over Allison’s shoulder, I see a few guys from the wrestling team approaching, curiosity driving the nosy bastards forward. They’ve wasted no time encroaching on my territory.

Awesome.

“Heads up ladies, assholes approaching.” I step closer to Jameson and tighten my hold around her waist in solidarity.

Protectively.

A united front.

Leading the pack is Zeke Daniels, perpetual dickface, pushing through the crowd like a gladiator heading to battle. Determined and proud—and bearing a grudge.

His hard, steely crosshairs are on Jameson, then dart to Allison, dismissing her. Those untrusting gray eyes begin their perusal of Jameson, beginning at her feet, swiftly moving up her denim clad legs. Pausing at the apex of her thighs. Linger too long on her breasts. Face. Hair.

Zeke’s jaded perusal misses not a single scrap of fabric or inch of exposed skin on Jameson’s body.

My guard goes up when frozen regard hits her pristine pink sweater…the elegant necklace…the glossy lips. They narrow, irritated. Nostrils flare.

Shit, he really doesn’t want me dating this girl. I don’t know why or what his problem is, but I have a feeling at some point, I’m going to find out.

The hard way.

“Park. Ozzy. You gonna introduce us to your playthings?” Zeke’s sullen gray eyes hit the arm I have resting under Jameson’s tits and he plants a sneer on his face.

Dude is just so fucking miserable.

“Guys, this is Jameson,” I give her tiny waist a squeeze. “You know her roommate, Allison.”

Allison tips her hand in a perky, friendly wave. “Hey guys. Congratulations on your wins this week.”

We didn’t just beat Stanford—we decimated them, individually and as a team.

“Hi.” One of my teammates steps forward, arm extended in a greeting like he’s meeting the homecoming queen, his expression is eager. “I’m Gunder—I mean, I’m Rex. Rex Gunderson. Hi.”

Enthusiastic doesn’t do Gunderson justice.

Wrestling in the lightweight class, Rex might be a winner on the mat, but he’s obviously out of practice with ladies; I can practically visualize the growing chub inside his pants and hear the internal dialogue: Hi, I’m Rex. You’re pretty. Can I take you back to my dorm and date you? I’ve never touched boobs. Can we date? And by date, I mean hump.