The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

I undulate my hips so excruciatingly slowly I want.

To.

Die.

Sebastian’s fingertips grip my thighs, easing up my body. Cup my breasts. He runs his flat palms in slow circles around my hard nipples. And if it were possible for him to be any deeper inside me, Sebastian flexes, tightening his torso. Rises into a sitting position. Wraps his powerful tattooed arms around my waist and buries his nose in the crook of my neck, impaling me farther.

“Jameson,” he croons, stroking my back, thrusting up into me. “Jameson, Jameson.”

Loving me.

It’s heaven.

It’s hell.

It’s bliss.

“God, I love the sounds you make,” he moans. Groans and thrusts. Strokes my damp hair as his dick strokes my g-spot. His deep-throated grunts are in sync with my breathless gasps. “You feel so good…so good…shit…uh…uh…shit…I’m close…James, baby, I’m gonna come.”

“Oh god, yes! Yes! Me too,” I damn near sob. “Hard, push…yes, ohgodohgod, yes, hard… Oh! Right there, right there. Oh!”

It’s loud and beautiful and sweaty.

It’s real.

“I can’t do it any more, Sebastian. Leave me alone and get me food.”

“Come on, Jameson. One more time before we go out. Please?”

“You’re insatiable—stop begging. I’ve created a monster.”

“Once more and I’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

“What a load of crap. You’ve said that twice already.”

“But I didn’t mean it those other two times.”

“Sebastian, I need a shower. And I need food—I’m hungry!”

“I can think of a few things to satisfy your appetite.”

“Ew.”

“You weren’t saying ‘ew’ when you were blowing me during Game of Thrones.”

“First of all, could we not call it ‘blowing you’? It makes me feel cheap. Secondly, you promised me a hamburger from Malone’s.”

“Ugh, fine.”

“Hey pal, you’re just lucky I’m still here. We’ve been in bed for what feels like a hundred godforsaken hours.”

“Is it sick that I’m beginning to find it sexy when you roll your eyes at me like that?”

“Um, yeah, it’s a little weird.”

“I can’t help wanting to blow a load every time I see you.”

“Is it weird I find that horrible, somewhat degrading sentence mildly erotic?”

“Will it get me laid if I say it’s not weird?”

“Probably.”

“Then no. It’s not weird.”

Sebastian

Watching Jameson across the crowded room, a few things immediately cross my mind:

I hit that—four times in the past twenty-four hours.

Four times.

Best sex of my life—and trust me, I’ve had plenty of it.

She’s just as horny and depraved as I am in bed, thank. Fucking. God.

I am harboring some serious feelings for her.

A smug grin crosses my face, like I’ve stumbled across an untapped gold mine not a soul before me has discovered. Because no one—and I mean no one—would look at Jameson and suspect what I already know: she’s hiding a banging body under those conservative clothes. Fucking fantastic boobs. Round, toned ass. Flat stomach.

Tight pussy.

Slipping into that shit? Toe-curling ecstasy.

Men pass her over; they see preppy cardigan sweaters and dainty shoes. They see boring. Staid. Buttoned up. A prude with a very smart mouth. They assume she’s sexually repressed, too much work for not enough output.

Like I did.

Which is fine—more Jameson Clark for me.

Every inch of her is all mine.

Holding court near the kitchen, the little vixen glances up from her conversation and I watch as she drags her exotic blue gaze up and down my physique, undressing me with her eyes, mouth curling into a knowing smirk above her red beer cup.

I return the favor, sizing her up: the light pink, tight-fitted sweater with the V-neck showing only a conservative amount of cleavage. Cropped skinny capris. The high, strappy wedge sandals she debated a full ten minutes on before deciding it wasn’t too cold to wear them outside.

In her pearl necklace’s place? A delicate gold chain with the word karma.

Her roommate, Allison, leans into her just then, speaking into her ear, causing James to laugh cheerfully. She throws her head back, exposing a column of neck I know smells like sweet coconut and tastes like dessert when it’s sucked on.

“Why do you keep looking over at Parker and his slam piece?” asks my teammate Pat Pitwell good-naturedly. For all his rough edges, he’s a really nice guy. Decent. He’s at school to wrestle, get a degree, and get out. He doesn’t sleep around, and he doesn’t make trouble.

So I’m honest with him. “I’m dating the girl in pink.”

“No shit?” Pitwell’s black bushy eyebrows shoot straight to the cornrows braided in his hair. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Goody two-shoes?”

I let the comment slide. “Yeah. I think she’s my girlfriend.”

“A girlfriend? Good for you, man.” He chugs from his red solo cup. “Pink sweater got a name?”

Pink sweater—that makes me smile. “James.”

“Seriously?” he asks again. “For real? Her name is James?”