The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“What would you like me to do?” Because I can come up with a million different ideas, all of them involving legs, tits, and ass. And nudity. Lots and lots of nudity.

“Um…” Her eyes dart from me, to the bathroom, to the dresser. Me. Bathroom. Dresser.

Me.

Poor thing is planning her exit strategy, but it’s clear she’s failing miserably because she’s still standing in the middle of the bed; I give her an A for effort, but a big fat F for execution.

“You could make a run for it,” I start, altruistically spreading my hands wide. “Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to come over there and—whoa! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I watch as she drops the white tank on the bed and reaches for the waistband of her black wool leggings. Balancing on the squishy mattress while she shoves them down past her hips, knees, and ankles, she steps out of them and they get tossed listlessly to the floor.

My eyes hit the skimpy baby blue underwear covering the patch between her smooth, sexy legs.

Lace. My weakness.

“You put those goddamn pants back on this instant,” I thunder, taking a step forward.

“You sound like someone’s father.” Jameson laughs, reaching for the hem of her thick, wool ski sweater. “And I’m not going to be calling you Daddy any time soon.”

She pulls the sweater higher, exposing a pale expanse of well-toned abdomen.

“Stop it. What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, genius?” Her muffled laughter taunts me. “Payback’s a bitch.”

She lets out a shriek then a gasp when my arms go around her bare waist and I plow her into the mattress, flipping her down onto her back, pile-driver style.

“Oz!” She belly laughs. “Get off me!”

“Say the magic word,” I tease, hovering above her. Like magnets to metal, my fingers find the bare skin of her thigh and land there by gravitational pull. Skimming lightly, they don’t stop until they find the wooly bottom of her sweater.

Tug. Tug that shit down so it covers up her taut stomach, because God forbid I have to look at that shit right now and keep my hands to myself.

Easier said than done.

I lean into her until I’ve lightly nudged her delicate shoulders flat on the mattress, hook under her legs until they’re cradled in my arms, and stare down at her.

“Say the magic word,” I repeat, my voice raspier than intended and far more serious.

“The magic word.” Little smartass.

My head dips low, whispering in the hollow of her neck. “Nope, not it. Try again.”

Burning hot, my hand moves from the backside of her knee. It tracks unhurried up her smooth, shaved thigh, imprinting its searing hot need on her skin. Spreading my palm wide, my thumb strokes that intoxicating indentation of her bikini line.

She lets me.

It’s smooth and completely hairless and now I’m fucking dying to know: “Do you wax your pussy, Jameson?”

A little whimper and a whispered, “No, I shave it,” has me aching to see it. Touch it. Taste it.

Under the plain cardigan sweaters, the prim pearl necklace, the refined black patent leather shoes, Jameson Clark is sporting some prime, Grade A hairless pussycat inside her pants.

And I want to play with it.

“Goddamn that’s sexy.” She’s sexy, all of her. Every last conservative inch.

My thumb brushes the seam of her panties and she gasps like a good girl. I angle toward her, wanting to press my mouth on her visible bare skin.

Jameson licks her lips. “Oz, please.”

“Please? Please what?” Please beg me to bang you.

“Let me up?”

She doesn’t sound convinced that’s what she wants, not in the least. Not with all the panting. Not with her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. She sounds like she’s relishing the press of my hard body, the contact of our pelvises as I gently pin her to the mattress in a classic wrestling move.

I inch away, giving her space, help her rise by taking her hand and pulling her up. Those high cheekbones flush and she looks away with a huff when she’s back on her feet. Hot. Bothered.

Flustered.

“Fine. I won’t wear the tank top. You win,” she mutters, avoiding my dark eyes. “Give me your shirt.”

I stand, adjust the raging hard-on inside my pants, and cross the room. I grab the shirt that’s been folded into a neat cotton square off the dresser, and, lifting it to my nose, I give it a whiff. “Mmm, smells like you. I’ll probably never wash it again.”

Jameson’s trembling hands reach for it. “Just give it to me.”

“See? Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about…”

Jameson

Oh my god, I have to pee.

Bad.

In total darkness, I ungraciously slide out of bed as quietly as I can so I don’t wake a slumbering Oz—who, it turns out, is a total bed hog—and feel my way along the wood-paneled wall in the general direction of the bathroom.

Thankfully, the light is already on, the overhead light above the tub emitting a dull glow. I have to pee so bad my fingers are already inside the waistband of my underwear when I beeline for the toilet in a squat. Shoving them down around my ankles, I lower myself with a relieved groan.

I pee, eyes squeezed shut to ward out the glow, only cracking them open when I fail to find the end of the toilet paper.