The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

She rolls her eyes. “Because you’re chatty and distracting.”

“A good kind of distracting? As in, you spend your time thinking of all the ways I could fuck you distracting?”

“Oh my god, no. You are so offensive.”

“Fine. No talking. Promise.” I make the universal sign for zipping my lip and throwing away the key.

She regards me thoughtfully, then lets out a resigned sigh and gathers her things. “Fine. We can go up to the study room.”

“Really?” I can’t hide my surprise.

“Sure. Clearly your evil intention to wear me down until I’m a shell of a woman is working. You know, like an FBI interrogator beats down a perp, or a toddler begs for candy.”

“Or like a fine wine.”

“No, not like a fine wine. The opposite of a fine wine.”

“Whatever you say, Jim.” When she rises with her bag, laptop, and textbooks, I reach over. “Here, hand that over. I’ll carry your stuff.”

“Aww, what a gentleman.”

“You’re way too petite and delicate to be carrying all this shit anyway. It’s bad for your back.”

“You…” Her voice full of wonder, James raises her brows up at me. “You think I’m delicate?”

I cast a glance down at her. “Duh.”

It only takes Jameson seven minutes to break the silence once we settle into the study room, sitting across from each other in the private, conference-like room. Completely enclosed with only a narrow window in the door, it’s isolated at the end of the hall, and quiet.

You could hear a pin drop. Until—

“So. How was your date with Sid?”

I bite back a grin. I wondered how long it would take her to bring that up, and she doesn’t disappoint.

“Great,” I say jovially. “She’s a delight.”

More silence. And then—

“So…what did you talk about?” James is the embodiment of composure and indifference, her features passively schooled.

“You know. Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

You kind of stuff. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

Her shoulders rise into a shrug. “Just curious. Sid was over the moon when she got home. You must have really laid on the charm.”

Nope, not even the slightest bit. Instead, I go with, “Or maybe Sydney is just an easy lay.”

Jameson stiffens, mouth dipping into a frown. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” My meaning is clear.

Silence.

She ignores me then, bending her head and writing in her notebook, the sound of her pen reverberating against the walls with every punishing stroke.

“No. I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet, just above a whisper.

I feel like such a dick. “Oh relax, nothing happened. I’m fucking with you.”

She’s not amused by my antics, or my swearing. “You use that word a lot.”

“I do. It’s a great fucking word.”

She raises her head and her cheeks are red. Blushing. Flaming.

All from the use of a single word. I decide to see how far I can push her.

“You don’t like it?” I press on. “Fucking?”

Nostrils flaring, her face gets redder—if that’s possible—and her eyes shine bright blue. Clear. Glassing over.

Unfocused. Heavy lidded. Turned on—another language I speak.

“Fucking is my favorite,” I soothe gently. “The word, I mean.”

Clearing her throat, James tilts her head to study me, intense blue gaze falling on my lips. They linger there, watching my mouth as I speak.

“Personally, Jameson, I think it’s one of the most versatile words in the English language. Don’t you?”

One small, jerky nod and I can see her throat contract when she swallows.

“Just listen once: fuuuuck.” I draw out the sound in a whimper, pained, the word strained in a slow, tortured moan, like I’d sound if I were about to orgasm.

“Fuck-ing,” I coax. “Fuck it. Fuck off.”

She shifts in her seat, restless now. “I get the picture, Oswald. You can stop now.”

But I don’t stop.

“Fuck you. Better yet, fuck me.” The curse rolls off my tongue like a command.

My cock stiffens as I lower my eyes to the chest of Jameson’s soft lavender sweater, the buttons now straining against her breasts. The visible skin in the V above her neckline is splotchy and red.

“Oh yeah, fuck me.” I quirk my eyebrow. “Have you Jim? Fantasized about fucking me?”

“Is it necessary to be so vulgar?” Her question comes out breathless and labored, and it doesn’t escape my notice that she’s avoided answering my question.

“Necessary? No,” I allow. “But it is more fun.”

“Well it’s starting to make me uncomfortable.”

“Really? It’s making you uncomfortable.” I rub my chin in thought.

She blows out a puff of what I assume is sexually frustrated air. “It makes me uncomfortable having you sit here and say things like that when we both know you’re only saying it because you think I look virginal and you’re trying to shock me. Too bad it isn’t working.”

She raises some valid points. Still—

“Don’t bullshit me, Jim. Every time I use the word fuck you start blushing like crazy. I bet you’re blushing everywhere, aren’t you?” Her face turns toward the bookshelves to avoid my rebuttal. “Look me in the eye and tell the truth; you’re getting turned on.”