The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

“Now bend them a little bit more, and put your hands out, like this.” He manhandles me until I’m positioned the way he wants me. “Good. Now when you come at me, you’re going to put your hands around my hips and move them around to my backside, head down toward my stomach.” His mammoth hand pats the area below his sternum. “Try to aim here.”

“What?” My head gives a shake. “No way! I’m not doing that!”

He frowns, sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it to you, then you can try it on me afterward.”

I smile innocently, the thought of his hands sliding down my ass a thrilling prospect. Bonus points if he squeezes it.

“All right. I’m totally okay with that.”

“Raise your hands a little higher, like this,” he instructs, demonstrating.

Rhett is all business. His eyes don’t so much as flicker down my body—not once, not even when I stick my boobs out to test his resolve.

“When my head hits your stomach, my hands are gonna get up underneath and pull you down, and you’re going to hit the floor.” He pauses. “Just FYI.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll try to lower you gently.”

Oh jeez. My girly parts tingle.

“Normally this is done from more of a run and the—”

“Just do it!” I laugh. “The anticipation is killing me.”

“Sorry. I’ve never done this on a girl before.”

“Rhett, just—oh my God!” I gasp when his head hits my tummy and I’m lifted off my feet, on my back within seconds, air whooshing out of my lungs with an excited breath, breath catching when his face appears in my line of vision.

Hovers over me, shaggy hair in his eyes. “You okay?”

My lips part, exhilarated. “Yes.” I’m more than okay, especially when his face moves in, eyes roaming my face. “Are you checking me for a concussion? Because I’m fine—my head didn’t even hit the ground.”

He had a hold on me the entire time he was leveraging me to the floor, quick, agile, and completely in control of his movements. Stealthy. Steady. Strong.

Gentle.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” I murmur, relishing how near he is, the hands now circled around my biceps.

“Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.” He tosses his head, jerking the hair out of his brown eyes. “What did you mean?”

“That was amazing.” My breath hitches, gaze skimming his bare shoulders. “It took no effort.”

“Lots of practice,” his lips say.

“Practice makes perfect,” mine reply, mind wandering to what else would be perfect with a little bit of practice, mentally ticking off a list: wrestling…kisses…sex.

I’m willing to bet he could give me an orgasm or two with a swivel of those muscular hips. My body aches to arch, pelvis wriggling under the length of him, inches from what I know is inside his navy pants.

“You know…” I begin. “You can’t seriously expect anyone to actually use that for self-defense, especially not a girl.”

“I panicked,” Rhett admits with a cute, crooked grin, teeth raking along his bottom lip. His low laugh is deep inside his chest. “You came over unannounced, askin’ about self-defense.”

My fingers find their way to his wavy hair, brushing aside the stray locks so they’re out of his eyes. “No, I came over to bring you cookies.”

Rhett seems to bask in my touch, briefly tilting his cheek into my palm, resting it there. My thumb traces the skin along his jaw, across his lower lip.

“Laurel?”

His face inches closer.

I suck in a breath.

This is it—he’s going to kiss me. “Yes?”

“Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say in a breathy whisper.

“What are you hopin’ it means?” Our mouths are a sigh apart, the air between us tickling my lips. His powerful chest brushes my breasts and this time, he doesn’t move away.

“Say it again.”

“Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?” His mouth is hot, near my ear, warm breath sending a spark up my middle, dampening my underwear. “Dis oui, s’il te plait.”

Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser; dear Lord, I hope it means he wants to kiss me. I hope it means—

Rhett’s bedroom door busts open, hitting the wall behind it, just as Rhett’s soft lips lightly sweep mine, tentative.

“Holy fuck.” There’s a skinny guy with blond hair filling the doorway, legs spread, folded sweatshirt in his hands. “Did I just interrupt something? Please say yes.”

Rhett is off me lightning fast, quicker than he flipped me on my back, and the loss of his heat leaves me cold. He turns to help me from the floor, my hands gripping his.

“What the hell, Gunderson. Learn to knock.”

“We just got home—I wasn’t expecting you to have anyone in here, dude. It’s not my fault.”

“It’s still my room.”

Gunderson shakes his index finger in the air like he’s making a point. “Technically this month it’s partly mine since I had to pay some of your rent.”

Rhett’s sigh of exasperation is loud. “Gunderson, get the fuck out.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not be so hasty.” He throws his hand out toward me, tucking the sweatshirt under his armpit so he can greet me properly. “I’m Rex, team manager. And you are…”

“Gunderson, this is Laurel.”

I peek out from around Rhett’s imposing form and give his roommate a little wave, despite the fact that he’s five feet away. “Hi.”

“Laurel.” Gunderson’s face is nothing but an idiot grin, all teeth and stupidity. “Dude, you’re Laurel? You’re so fucking…wow. I’m almost tempted to tell him to forget everything I said about you.”

When the rude bastard narrows his beady eyes at me, I narrow my blue eyes back. Then the jerk has the balls to ask, “What are your intentions with our buddy Rabideaux here?”

“Jesus, Gunderson.” Rhett groans. “Get out of my room.”

“It’s a legit question, dude! I’m doing you a favor.”

Rhett gives his roommate a delicate shove through the threshold of his bedroom, his mammoth-sized hand reaching around. It goes to the small of my back, just above my ass, that one spot heating my entire body.

His thumb inadvertently settles near my ass crack.

I’m tempted to wiggle my butt.

“This is why you can’t get laid, you know that, right,” the jerk mutters when he’s ushered into the hallway. “You can’t even joke about sex.”

Rhett’s hand lingers on my rear, slides up my spine when his roommate disappears from sight. Reaches for a sweatshirt off the hook by his door, tank top rising when he lifts his arm, smooth expanse of midsection exposed from the motion.

I ogle his body.

Washboard abs. Flat stomach. The telltale sign of a happy trail leading from his belly button, disappearing into the waistband of athletic pants so thin, I can see the outline of his dick.

He slides the sweatshirt over his head. When he comes up for air, tugging the hem down over his pants, he says, “I should get you home.”

Instinctively, I want to pout. Stomp my foot. Demand he lay me down on the floor and put his hands back on my body where they belong.

“Okay.”

We walk in peaceful silence past the nine houses that separate us. I wordlessly count them as we go, trying to enjoy Rhett’s company, to shift the focus so I’m not fixating on that almost kiss in his bedroom.

He was going to kiss me, I know it.

It’s a short jaunt to my house and a shorter walk up the sidewalk.

“I have to be up early, so…” Rhett lingers, kicking at an invisible pebble on the concrete slab that is my entryway. “Thanks for the cookies.”

“Good luck tomorrow.” I want to go up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around him, kiss his cheek.