The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

“My head hurts. I want to go home,” Allison murmurs, elbowing Parker in the ribcage. “Parker, take me home. And this time, you’re spending the night.”

I shoot good luck Parker’s way and give him a fist bump, glad Jameson and I weren’t the center of all the drama, glad I’m not on the receiving end of what’s sure to be one hell of an ass ripping.

A few quick nods, a few more hugs.

“We’re out. I’m getting James the fuck outta here.” I give Allison a pointed look, glancing down at James. “Don’t wait up.”

Jameson

I can’t get Zeke Daniels off my mind. His indifference. His rude behavior. His callous demeanor.

Something about the way he was watching Sebastian and me from across the room caught and held my attention; long before his careening gaze turned to a scowl, it was filled with something completely unexpected.

Pain.

I’m no psychologist—and I’ve been wrong before—but there is no denying it: Sebastian Osborne has something Zeke Daniels wants, and he’s as petulant as a child who can’t express his feelings, dealing with it the only way he knows how—through frustration and anger.

And mini bitch fits.

But why?

Why did he find it necessary to degrade Allison? Why did he find it necessary to demean my budding relationship with Oz? I assumed they were friends, but now I’m not so sure.

No one would treat a friend like that.

Not if they cared.

I consider this fact while Oz uses the toilet, emerging from the bathroom moments later to collect me where I’m perched on the end of the sofa in the living room.

He leads me by the hand down the short hall to his bedroom, lacing our fingers together when we cross the threshold. Flipping on the light, he presses me gently against the back of the closed door. Large hands cup my face, thumbs brush the underside of my chin in slow strokes. Dark, penetrating eyes scan my face as we wordlessly study each other.

The rough pad of his forefinger traces the line of my skin in a slow trail, over my cheekbone and along the curve of my eyebrow. His thumb tracks down the bridge of my nose until he reaches the cupid’s bow of my lip. Rests it there.

Rubs his thumb back and forth across my soft, parted lips,

his gentle touch leaving a mark on my skin like a brand.

As he intends.

Sebastian slides those magnificent hands across each side of my neck, raking them through my hair, and leans in, nostrils flaring. Settles his mouth on mine.

Kisses me. Softly. Tenderly.

It deepens.

Wide, open-mouth kisses, heavy on the tongue.

Pinned to the door, my back arches when he moves those magic hands lower. Over my shoulders and down my arms, painstakingly slowly. Grasps my hips. They snake around to my rear, grabbing a handful. His knees bend, and before I can react, he’s effortlessly hauling me up and off the ground like I weigh nothing, our mouths still fused together.

With Sebastian, I’m dainty and petite and deliciously vulnerable.

Suspended in the air, my legs instinctually wrap around his waist. He leans into me, all our yummy, private bits smashed together in perfect symmetry, lined up like a sexy, heavily panting puzzle.

We fit.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night.” I gasp when his lips hit the corner of my mouth.

“Yum. You taste like beer and honey.” He hums in my ear. “And me. You taste like me.”

“I like that you taste yourself on me.” I purr at him in between kisses. “It’s sexy.”

“Jesus James, I can’t get enough of you. You’re—”

A booming crash stops whatever he’s about to say; Sebastian goes lethally still, listening.

A door slams shut, the thud accompanied by muffled voices and raucous female laughter. Giggling. More than two people are obviously stumbling down the hallway and falling into furniture. Another door slams, voices resonating from the next room. The telltale noises of mattress springs creaking. The sounds of a girl being tickled.

Moaning. Tittering.

Oh jeez.

“Great, dickwad is back with groupies,” he complains stridently against my lips. “We need a house rule about that.”

“Shhh, quiet,” I whisper. “They’ll hear us.”

“I will not shhh.” His velvety voice raises defiantly. “That dickhead can kiss my lily white ass, especially after that shit he pulled at the party.” Calloused fingertips dip into the neckline of my pink angora sweater, exploring the swell of my breasts. “You’ve been waiting to kiss me all night and I’ve been waiting to get you alone.”

“But we’ve been together since last night.” I nip his earlobe playfully. “I only went home to shower and change.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Deft hands sweep back my hair while his seductive lips find purchase on my neck, nipping gently, tendons in his biceps flexing with every movement as he balances my weight. “So soft and pretty…your sweater is driving me to fucking distraction.”

His voice is low and gruff and hot—so hot. I moan when his mouth does a leisurely lap up the column of my neck in a single stroke, rolling that naughty tongue across my skin like he’s lapping up honey.

And I’ve never, never been one for licking—ever. But I like this licking. Love his mouth and his lips and his tongue. They’re provocative in a way that gets me so deliriously hot and bothered and ten shades of turned on.

Wet.

My hips swivel, rocking toward the throbbing length between his muscular thighs, my eyes wandering toward the bed against the far wall. I must be gazing at it longingly because he asks, “You wanna get naked?”