The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

Eye roll. “I insist.”

Pushing himself away from the fence, he saunters over, slower than molasses, approaching from behind. Rests both hands on my hips. Slides them slowly up my ribcage, down my arms, and grips the base of the bat over my hands.

His hard muscular body imprints on my backside; I bite down on my bottom lip when that splendid chest encounters my shoulder blades, his pelvis creating an erotic friction against my derriere. I loll my head slowly to the side as his nose brushes the hair alongside my neck, nudging it aside.

Those lips speak, inadvertently igniting infinite sparks inside my body, his suggestive words a sexy, sensory caress.

“Grip it like this, not too firm, not to soft.” He repositions my hands. “Open those beautiful legs for me a little wider, James. Yeah, that’s it.” His knee taps the inside of my leg, spreading them wider on the asphalt. “Straddle the plate.” Those fingertips momentarily leave the bat to dig into my hips and cradle me in closer.

I can feel his cock straining against my ass crack and fight back a moan. “There is no plate.” It’s a batting cage, not a ballpark.

“Close your eyes and visualize it then. Imagine yourself straddling it.”

My eyes flutter closed, a ballpark the furthest thing from filthy mind. Graphic images fuel my imagination, my dirty, dirty imagination: Sebastian on his back, covered in sex sweat. His bare chest, lean hips, and a light dusting of hair trailing from his belly button straight down to the delicious V…dipping, dipping down and disappearing into a tangle of white sheets. Rising above him on a big bed, my hair spills in a cascade over my naked—

“Are you seeing it?” His voice cuts into my fantasy.

“Yes. I’m seeing it…” The throbbing between my legs is no figment of my imagination. The wet underwear. The want. The, “Mmm.”

Oz releases his grip on the bat so he can drag those massive paws along the front of my denim jeans. I almost can’t stand the tension of his middle and forefinger dragging up and down that sensitive vale of my bikini line, rubbing. Coaxing. So close to my crotch the telltale sign of an orgasm threatens to have me moaning out embarrassingly loudly.

The resistance from his fingers on the denim is like flint and fire.

Intoxicating.

He strokes my lower abdomen.

Groans into my shoulder.

Drags that rock-hard dick across my ass.

We both groan when his fingers drag themselves up my ribcage and reposition themselves around the barrel of the bat.

“Coming here was such a fucking terrible idea,” he growls.

“No crap.” Don’t drop the bat James, don’t drop the bat. “This is the worst place ever.”

I clutch it tight.

“Rule number eleven: any and all future dates will now have a no-contact clause implemented.”

“That sounds like a rule within a rule.” I pant, mentally attempting to steady my palpitating heart. “Maybe we should head back. Clearly you can’t be trusted to behave.”

“Me? You’re the one gyrating your tight little ass into my—”

“Am I?” I’m trying to focus on his words, I really, really am…and I really am gyrating my ass into his junk…but I swear, I can’t help myself. My body suddenly has a mind of its own.

“You are,” he maintains. “You’re gyrating like a stripper.”

He says it like it’s a bad thing. “Sorry?”

“Say sorry without moaning.” Oz chortles in my ear with a sigh. “We should probably leave before I come in my pants like a thirteen-year-old and we embarrass ourselves.”

A family of seven is picking out helmets and bats in the gated batting cage to our immediate left.

“Good idea.”

Neither of us make a move.

“Jim, let go of the bat.”

“You let go of the bat.”

His hips swivel, giving my rear a little bump, a little grind. “One of us should let go of the bat.”

“All right.” Biting down on my lower lip, I nod. Oz’s warm body heat is making my knees weak, turning my otherwise levelheaded brain to mush. “Okay. We should definitely go.”

So we do.

We return the bats and helmets then climb back into his black pickup truck. Drive the few short miles back to my house. Sit in his vehicle in the street, under the bright overhead security lamp.

It’s gotten dark outside and the streetlights flicker on one by one along the empty avenue, casting shadows and slashes of light inside the cab of Oz’s truck. Across his dark eyes, lips, and chest.

He looks foreboding. Mysterious.

Sexy.

I swallow, glancing out the window before unbuckling the seatbelt that’s been holding me secure.

“Wait there,” Oz instructs, swiftly undoing his own seatbelt and hastening to open the door. He jumps out, jogs to my side, and wrenches open the passenger side door.

I bite back a grin at his good manners; he’s a lot rusty, but the potential is there.

“Thank you.”

Nonchalantly, his hand slides into mine as we stroll, unhurried, up the sidewalk to the door.

I turn to face him, hand still in his, leaning casually against the front porch. I suck in one unsteady breath after the other in an attempt to stabilize my rapidly beating heart.

“Is this weird?” I whisper under the dim light.

“Is what weird?” Oz whispers back. “Why are we whispering?”

“This. Us. I feel like we should be doing something else. Studying or something.” I try to laugh, but the laugh gets caught in my throat. “Get back into our element.”