The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

The actress’s tits are right fucking there.

“Do you want to turn this off and watch something else?” I hear myself croak out, realizing just then that when I sat down on the couch, I grossly miscalculated the distance between us. Instead of giving her inches of berth, our legs and thighs and hips are touching.

“No,” comes Violet’s soft whisper. “It’s okay.”

“No?”

I shift in my seat, the heat from her denim-clad thigh only making the tension worse.

“No. We’re good.”

I know I shouldn’t react—I do—and yet, when Violet’s soft hand finds mine beneath the blanket and slides into mine, and fits…I move, body inching closer like a magnet is drawing me nearer.

Our fingers entwine, her other hand runs along the top of my thigh, patting it, seemingly unaware of the raging war inside my underwear, my body losing an intense battle with itself.

Fucking traitor.

She innocently lays her head on my shoulder.

The blonde hair on the top of her head tickles my nose, sending an odd twitch straight from my spine to my already pulsing dick. The little terror strains against the fabric of my jeans.

“This is snuggling,” she informs me just as Claire Frasier has an orgasm not ten feet in front of us. Violet’s pretty face tips up so she can look into my eyes.

Her body leans, fingers finding the bulk of my bicep and landing there, all the while clutching my other hand. It must be uncomfortable.

So I move.

Shift my body, slide my newly free hand around her narrow waist, pulling her in.

I groan, head hitting the back of the couch, counting one, two, three, four in a piss-poor attempt at some semblance of self control.

Four.

That’s as high as my brain can count because I stop breathing when her smooth lips find the pulse in my throat. Give it the tiniest, barest whisper of a kiss.

Soft, exploratory kisses, up and down the column of my thick neck, gentle nuzzles beneath my ear. “You’re not so bad at it,” Violet says, lips just inches from mine.

Whoa, what the fuck.

There is no fucking way she’s trying to seduce me right now. No. Way. She’s too naïve and gentle. In my gut, I know she’s just being affectionate. No way is she trying to get laid.

So what the hell is she doing, kissing the side of my neck and whispering flirty shit into my ear? She might as well be whispering lines from a porno. My brain works in overtime, trying to sort it out but coming up with nothing.

I sit ramrod straight, afraid to move. Not wanting to lead her on, or worse yet—take advantage.

Is this what being noble feels like?

If it is, being noble fucking sucks.

Am I attracted to Violet? Yes.

Do I want to bang Violet? Yes.

Would I screw her if she threw herself at me? Yes.

Her head hits my shoulder again, whole body relaxes into me, vibrant and warm. Buzzing. The hum of electricity circling is deafening, and when she tips her face to smile up at me?

I lower mine.

Give in, just this once.

Lips grazing.

Again.

Again. And again.

Faint. Tantalizing.

Small, teasing kisses I didn’t know I was capable of.

Kisses that leave bruises? Those have always been more my speed. Girls that bite and spank and like to be told what to do? That’s what I’m used to. Girls who make all the moves, are aggressive, who don’t expect anything in return but an orgasm—those girls don’t want to be friends.

My lips rest on hers, and I inhale her clean skin and perfume. Lift my hand to stroke the side of her face, caressing her smooth porcelain skin with the pad of my calloused thumb. With hands that might not have known hard work, but have worked hard. Hours upon hours of training and breaking my back for the wrestling team. Early mornings and late nights. Long road trips. Short weekends. Sacrificing a personal life to sink every spare moment into my team, until I’m left gasping for breath, because they’re all I’ve got.

But Violet is with me now.

I’m not sure what the hell it all means, or what the hell I’m doing here with her, but I know how good it fucking feels with her mouth pressed against mine. With her fingers running the length of my thigh, intentionally or not, driving a hot zip of friction to my groin.

I groan into her mouth, dragging a hand from her face, straight down her arm. It hits her hip, kneading the flesh above the waistline of her jeans. Squeezes. Fingers the fabric of her hemline and curls, tugging.

She presses closer with a little hum, small breasts brushing my chest, our breaths mingling.

We can’t get enough of each other. Violet’s hands are in my hair, gliding along my shoulders, gripping, feeling, memorizing every hard line of my upper torso. Touching me like she’s never felt a man’s pecs before, never felt their arms or chest or muscles.

Touching me like…

Like I’m…

Shit. The way I’m touching her.

I want to fuck her so bad now I can hardly think straight.

My hand roams her slender form, large hand running up and down her thigh. In between her legs and under her shirt.

Up her flat stomach.

There’s nothing special about her bare torso; it’s not like I haven’t had my hand up a girl’s shirt before. But this is Violet’s heat, Violet’s skin, and she’s letting me run the open part of my hand toward the curve of her breasts.

I arrive at her bra; it’s so small I can fit my entire hand over the sheer cup. No underwire. Textured, I finger the lace and slide my hand all the way inside. Fingers toying with her breast, thumb flicking her nipple.