The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“I’m a giver, Jimmy.”

I don’t doubt that. As I lay there in the dark, listening to his steady breathing, my mind wanders. I mean, would anyone blame me? Lying here next to this big, broody, sexy, warm-blooded male, naked from the waist up?

I’d have to be nuts not to fantasize—or dead from the waist down, which I’m not.

I clear my throat, the sound filling the dark. “Tell me about wrestling.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Are you any good?”

His answer is a deep, gravelly rumble. It booms and shakes and reverberates the bed. Even without the lights on, I know he’s clutching his stomach.

“Don’t make fun of me!” My arms stretch out and I poke what I’m assuming is a thick bicep. My fingers sink into his hot skin and I quickly pull them back.

“I’m not making fun of you; you’re just so damn cute.”

I hesitate. “Well? Are you any good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“How good?”

“I’m real good. Not just real good—I’m the fucking best.” The mattress dips and he turns to rest on his side, facing me. “Know what my favorite part of wrestling is?”

“What’s your favorite part?” I gulp down a whisper, then a sigh.

“The moments before I finally get that pin, the anticipation when you both know it’s coming. The buildup, the back and forth leading up to that point.” He is positively humming, and my nerves hum right along with him. “My body stretched out, sweaty from the effort, my opponent laid out underneath me.”

Why does it sound like we’re not talking about wrestling any more? A throbbing heat forms between my legs, and I wiggle around uncomfortably to avoid having to rub them together.

“Oh.” This time I do whisper and sigh.

“Yeah.” The mattress dips again as he rolls toward me. “Oh.”

“Is it a power trip thing?”

I can feel him considering the question. “Not at all. For me, the thrill is all mental, knowing I can calculate how someone is going to react before they do in order to gain the upper hand physically.” Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “It’s more about controlling my own body and its movements rather than someone else’s.”

The room is silent.

“Does my size…scare you James?” His voice is reluctant and full of worry, as if the thought just occurred to him.

“No. No, your size doesn’t scare me.” Quite the opposite; it doesn’t scare me—the sheer size of him thrills me and my traitorous body. I don’t mention how it’s become harder and harder to breath when we’re together. How I’ve begun fantasizing about him when we’re apart. How lying here in the dark is a test of my resolve.

I want to touch him.

I want to let him touch me.

Whisper his name as he…

“I might be big, but I don’t ever want you to be afraid of me, James. I would never hurt you.”

“I know.” He would never.

“My dick would never hurt you either. He’s very gentle.”

Great. Now I’m going to be lying here thinking about his penis.

“Oh my god, Oz, you are so—”

“Good in bed.”

“Why must you do that?”

“I’m just stating the facts, Jim.”

“Go to sleep, Oswald.”

Sebastian

Holy shit, Jameson is good.

No. Scratch that.

Not good. Fucking. Great.

I’ll be the first to admit: when I heard James was a good snowboarder…I didn’t believe it. Granted, all my assumptions were based entirely on her conservative looks. Her preppy sweaters. Her pearl necklace. Those classy, demure, diamond earrings. The leggings or whatever those pants are that she’s always wearing.

None of those things scream, “I shred it going down a mountain riding a snowboard.”

But shreds it.

She does.

She really, really fucking does—and watching her today was unbelievable. I couldn’t take my eyes off her: dark brown hair in two of the sexiest braids I’ve ever fucking seen, peeking out from underneath her black helmet and sleek goggles. I happily trailed down the mountain after her, chasing every movement of her blue tie-dye coat and bright blue snowboarding pants.

Struggled to keep pace as she nose crailed a 360 in the terrain park. Marveled when she banked it off the slider. Cheered when she slid skillfully on the down rail.

I consider myself a decent snowboarder, but even I can’t do an Ollie. Jameson nailed three of them.

She removes her bright blue coat as we walk into the warm ski chalet and my eyes browse around, noting all the people inside escaping from the frigid cold: several youngsters that are obviously siblings, a married couple sipping coffee, and the same MILF with huge silicon tits and botoxed lips that accidentally bumped into me this morning when I was putting on my lift ticket. She may or may not have been giving me come fuck me eyes.

Scratch that—she definitely was.

The black straps of Jameson’s snowboarding pants draw my attention; they’re pulled taut over her shoulders, running up the front of her tight, black wool under layer, showcasing her boobs. They’re not huge or fake—not like the MILF’s—and I admire their size and their smooth, round shape beneath her sweater.

An entire handful.

Next comes the helmet. Jameson reaches up and unsnaps the strap cradling her chin before sliding it off and shaking her two brown braids so they hang over those gorgeous tits, stray hairs flying haphazardly around her flushed face.