The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“Relax Jimbo. It’s just a nap,” his lips murmur into the hollow of my neck, arms giving my waist a squeeze. His hot breath strokes my collarbone. “And it’s okay to touch me.”

He’s right; I need to relax.

I allow myself a brief moment to appraise him, curled up in his seat, leaning into me. Embracing me, really, cuddling me like his favorite teddy bear. The smell of him assaults me: peppermint breath, masculine shampoo. Clean. Male. The scent of him makes my mouth water and my body ache.

The smell of him makes me thirsty.

Soft cotton short-sleeved shirt bares his powerful arms. Black and flesh-colored tattoos cover the entire left bicep, wrap around his forearm, and end at the wrist. His hands are large, calloused. Working hands.

Those hands tell a story. They’re solid. And…dependable.

They cause pain.

Bring pleasure.

Slowly, of their own violation, my palms find purchase on his deltoids, sliding up the smooth fabric of his shirt in one languid motion, memorizing the hard planes beneath. The pads of my fingertips trace each curve curiously, learning the shape of him.

Those same fingertips dig into the corded muscles of his thick neck. Kneading. Massaging.

Memorizing.

“Damn Jim, that feels good,” he croaks into the wadded up hoodie still jammed between us.

“Go to sleep, Oswald,” I croon into his hair, feeling more for him at this moment than I’ve allowed myself to admit.

I know better than this. This guy is an energy-filled livewire of testosterone; he’s the opposite of what I’m looking for despite not really knowing what that is.

He sleeps around. He’s callous. Crude. Rude. Insensitive.

Totally inappropriate.

Pensively, I stare down at the crown of his hair, resisting the urge to inhale. Regardless, I catch an intoxicating whiff of his shampoo—actually, it’s my shampoo because he stole it—and close my eyes, savoring the differences between us.

His hard to my soft. His outspokenness to my tact. His virile to my…

Holy crap, I need to get laid.

But Sebastian Osborne is the last thing I need. The last person I need to…lay me.

There was a time I used to worry about never finding the one. Worry I was going to be alone forever with no one to come home to at night but the dog. Or cat. Or fish. In fact, most of my friends were happily single. Wanted to be.

On purpose.

Free to do whatever and whomever they wanted.

I think I woke up one morning and decided it didn’t matter any more; not having a man in my life wasn’t going to define me, wasn’t going to make me feel less whole or undesirable.

Undesirable. What a ridiculous thing to say at the age of twenty-one.

Undesirable—maybe it’s too strong a word because men did desire me; I just didn’t desire most of them back. Sure, I was up for the occasional meaningless one-night stand; I probably had my hand down my own pajama bottoms more often than Oz did down his.

But maybe a hookup to take the edge off wasn’t enough.

Not any more.

Or maybe not a hookup with him.

Although I sit here, wrapped in the arms of a guy who wants to screw my brains out—a guy who’d screw me into a twelve-hour coma if I let him—I couldn’t make myself say the word yes.

Yes.

What was stopping me from letting him?

The heat pooling between my legs has me fidgeting in my seat.

“I can hear you thinking,” Oz murmurs. “Babe, relax.”

Babe.

He’s called me that a few times before, but this time it’s almost like he means it, if that makes sense.

It’s then that I feel his large mammoth palms begin their ascent, wandering up my back. Up and down, straying from my waist in what little room they have to roam. They feel so warm and good I arch my spine to give him more access, arch it just a little, because…oh god that feels good…

“You can’t hear me thinking,” I argue weakly with zero conviction.

“Yes I can. I read body language as a sport, remember? Relax, James—I can’t sleep with all this nervous energy.”

Body language as a sport.

Pining down an opponent in nothing but that singlet wrestlers wear, hot and sweaty and hard. The catalogued image of him in that tight spandex unitard—the pictures I’d googled when curiosity finally won out—have me uneasily squirming in his hold.

I wonder if this is what it’s like to be pinned down by him.

Wonder if this is what it’s like to be beneath him in bed.

Not in it, on top of it.

No covers. No clothes.

Oh god.

“James. Relax.” He tips his face up then, our lips a fraction of an inch apart. Full, pink lips that I’ve tasted. Sucked on. Stuck my tongue between.

“I’m trying,” I breathe. “But it’s hard.”

“It’s going to be hard if you don’t stop moving around.”

I can’t even summon up the energy to lecture him on propriety, so focused on his lips. Before I can flop my head back against the window, before I can shut my eyes and pretend to sleep, warm lips press firmly against my mouth. One. Two kisses. A wet tongue quickly darts out and flicks the corner of my mouth.

His large palm supports the back of my neck, pulling me down, pulling me in and resting his lips on mine. My heartbeat keeps time with the seconds our lips bond. One, two, three, four…

Lids briefly close and Oz pulls away, settling his cheek onto my chest.

Peppermint lingers on my gaping pucker.