How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  Liar.

  “Please don’t ever call anyone kitten. It’s worse than sweetheart. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.” Then she boxes out, adjusting her entire body, rearranging herself away from me. Head bowing over her notebook, her shoulders slump a fraction before she raises her head to look me directly in the eye. “Know what else? That was a shitty thing to say to someone.”

  “What! You just said the same freaking thing to me!”

  Even so, when her mask of uncertainty gazes back at me,

  I’m not gonna to lie—I feel like a total dickwad for having said it back.

  Kind of.

  Sort of.

  Fine. Not really.

  Nonetheless, I let out a long, drawn-out sigh, like I’m about to do her a huge favor to make up for it. “Okay. I’ll give you half the money.”

  Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “That’s your apology? Pity money?”

  I refuse to say I’m sorry. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Fine. I’ll kiss you, but only because you wore me down.”

  “You just fleeced me out of two hundred dollars!”

  “Two hundred and fifty.”

  We size each other up under the dim lights of the library, the table lamps casting a warm glow over her smooth skin and heart-shaped face. Shadows dance when she cocks her head in my direction, waiting for me to say something.

  I try to look her up and down to mentally catalog her tits, hips, and ass, but it’s impossible with her sitting down.

  “Can you do me one favor?” I grumble. “I think this would be less awkward for me if you stood up.”

  She sniffs indignantly. “Less awkward for you? I’m about to put my lips on a complete stranger, and now you’re getting picky. Keep piling up those favors.”

  “Instead of bitching you should be thanking me for the opportunity.”

  A huff. “That’s right—you’re paying me because you are the epitome of morality and trustworthiness. It practically oozes out of your pores.”

  “Jesus lady. I said I was going to give you half and I will.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.” She huffs again but stands, rises to her full height, and shocks me again. A petite little thing, she barely reaches my clavicle, and I’m tempted to see if I could rest my chin on her head.

  “If you don’t trust me and I’m pissing you off, why would you agree to this stupid stunt?”

  This gives her pause and she seems to consider my question. “Curiosity. Besides, isn’t it okay to make poor choices every once in a while?”

  I glance down between our bodies, noting the full breasts straining against the buttons of her black cardigan, and grin. Sorry, can’t help it; Sexy Librarian’s got a great rack beneath her proper sweater, with its row of proper buttons, and now they’re pressing improperly against my chest in the most improper way.

  “What did you say your name was?” My question comes out huskier than intended.

  Her pouty mouth slips into another satisfied smirk. “Sexy Librarian.”

  “No, seriously.”

  She pauses, inhaling a breath of air before exhaling it.

  “Fine. If you must know, my name is James. James Clark.”

  I know it’s fucking rude—and probably really obnoxious—but I let my eyes bug out of my head and my mouth fall open. “Your name is James? Like as in James, James?”

  Patiently, she waits me out.

  I just stare at her, reconciling the masculine name with the feminine figure in front of me. Then, I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Don’t guys get confused when you’re fucking them? Doesn’t your dude name get confusing for them?”

  James’s blue eyes flare, but she otherwise doesn’t react. She’s obviously used to this response to her name.

  “James is short for Jameson.” The implied ‘asshole’ tacked to the end of her sentence lingers in the air, squeezed between our bodies.

  My dark eyebrow shoots sardonically into my hairline and my lips twist into a smirk. “What—the two extra letters on the end made it so long you had to shorten it?”

  “Something like that.” Bemused, she bites down on her lower lip. “Are you going to kiss me or what? I have a thirty-page paper to finish by midnight, and I’m only on page twenty-two.”

  “You have to kiss me.”

  “Oh sheesh.” A loud sigh and she fiddles nervously with the top button of her cardigan. My eyes settle on the sliver of creamy skin there before she says, “Lucky me, this just gets better and better, doesn’t it? All right then Oz, hold still. You ready?”

  So fucking ready.

  “I’m ready Jim.” I chuckle. “Lay one on me.”

  As she presses her body closer, I catch a whiff of what smells like baby powder and something floral. I inhale, staring down at her chest. I mean, since her boobs are squished against me, I might as well take advantage—and shockingly, she lets me.

  Rises to her toes. Flutters her lashes.

  Purses her pouty lips.

  I expect a chaste kiss to settle on my cheek, just a brush of her lips, or a quick peck on my jawline.

  I’ve never been so wrong in my entire fucking life.

  And truthfully, I’ve never been this turned on either. Trying to get James to kiss me has been fun, an actual, honest to God, chase—one I’ve enjoyed every second of.

  So I watch her lips and revel in the feel of her—

  Stop it fucker.

  Focus.

  Jameson’s warm hands cup my face, cradling my jaw. Her thumbs begin a slow, steady stroke along my cheeks, gliding back and forth until my neck tilts involuntarily, eyelids getting heavy as I watch her in wonder. I’m truly enthralled as this weird, unassuming stranger searches my eyes.

  Instinctually, my lips seek the contact of her palm, wanting to place a kiss there. As if sensing my intention, her head gives a shake. “Don’t.”

  A whisper.

  A sigh.

  Her buttons dig deeper still into my chest when she arches higher on her tiptoes to rest her lips against the outside corner of my mouth.

  Rests them there, inhaling. Presses those lips to one side, then the other.

  My bottom lip.

  Gives my cupid’s bow a quick flick of the tongue.

  My nostrils flare as I stand, ramrod straight and stiff, waiting…waiting until Jameson pulls back, her smooth hands lingering, never leaving my person, blue eyes memorizing every detail of my face.

  Debating.

  My dark, hawk-like gaze follows the teeth that drag over her lower lip and pull, follow the tongue darting out to moisten her mouth.

  I don’t move a single muscle in my body, but can’t help goading her. “I don’t have all day here.”

  “Shhhh,” she admonishes. “Quiet please. When you talk, it makes me want to slap some sense into you.”

  Her pink mouth hovers just a breath away, teasing, the air between us growing oddly combustible. The energy between our lips emits a slight electric sizzle that I’ll lie in bed questioning later—but for now, my dick twitches inside my dark jeans and my fists clench and unclench at my sides, fighting to gain some control of the situation.

  It proves impossible.

  My legs get restless, and suddenly adrenaline is coursing through my entire body. I could do a hundred laps around campus—which is so fucking ridiculous.

  She’s not even my usual type—blonde, stupid, and easy.

  She’s a nobody, and I don’t screw nobodies.

  Not usually.

  Lips pursed, she finally presses them over mine.

  Sighs.

  My lips part and like a good girl, she slides her tongue unhurriedly inside.

  I’m hard. So fucking hard.

  Jameson tastes fresh—like peppermint gum and strawberries—and suddenly I find my hands circling her slim waist, pulling her flush to my body so I can grind my erection into her thigh as our lips part. Farther. My tongue seeks its way inside...all the way inside.


  As deep as a lifeline.

  Within seconds we’re making out like unsupervised high school students in their parents’ basement, right in the middle of the damn library, surrounded by our peers.

  I groan when she bites my bottom lip then sucks on it.

  From behind, I hear my asshole teammates at the table across the room catcalling—not loudly enough that the librarian will come over, but loud enough that Jameson breaks the kiss, pushing back on my solid rock of a heaving chest with a moan, distancing herself, hand poised at her lips.

  After a few steadying breaths, she breathily asks, “Was that good enough for a payday? Satisfied now?”

  Fuck no. “I won’t be satisfied until I’m fucking you on a table in a study room.” I grapple for her hand. “Come on.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise when I reach forward to grab her arms. Intention: pull her back in for another kiss. Reality: she evades me, sidestepping away, her ass hitting the table, jostling the lamp, and knocking her pens off the edge with a clatter. An unsteady hand flies to her swollen lips, gently caressing them with the pads of her fingertips.

  “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  My blazing eyes take her in, head to toe: jeans, white tee, black cardigan, gleaming pearls.

  Pearls. Jesus H. Christ.

  “Then what kind of girl are you? One that’s not into having a good time? Or are you just a tease?”

  I visualize the scene with her in my mind. Haphazardly shoving our books off the table to the floor. Clearing it off so I can set her on the edge. Slide off her jeans. Caress her in places…all over. Inside places with my dick. Her clit while I watch her come, spread out on the study room table.

  “You won your bet,” James begins slowly, smoothing a hand down her ponytail. “You’ve won your money, and I’ve mollified my curiosity.” Her big blue eyes, guarded now, roam to the table where Zeke and Dylan sit, watching. “You should go. Your friends are waiting.”

  I give a jerky nod, my hand reaching down to dramatically adjust the hard-on in my pants. “Thanks for the blue balls.”

  Her lip twitches. “You’re welcome.”

  I give her another onceover, taking her in from head to toe, seeing her differently than I did ten minutes ago. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone from straitlaced and unadventurous to sassy and weirdly erotic.

  Damn shame she’s not giving it up.

  Finally, I turn, presenting her with my back before striding away, one heavy footfall after the other, toward my friends. I get halfway across the library when her bubbly little voice rings out, a soft beckoning.

  “Hey Oz?”

  I stop.

  Instead of facing her, I turn my head only a fraction, presenting her with just my profile. “What.”

  She’s quiet for a few seconds—so quiet my morbid curiosity forces me to turn. Jameson stands in the soft lamp light in the dim corner, her eyes sparkling with wit and humor.

  Captivated, my brows raise impatiently. “Well?”

  “A little friendly advice?” Her pouty lips part and I’m drawn to them as they mutter, “Never judge a girl by her cardigan,” just loud enough for me to hear.

  That gives me pause. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I don’t need it.”

  Two hours and twenty minutes later, that quietly uttered advice is all I can think about: never judge a girl by her cardigan.

  Never judge a girl by her cardigan.

  What the hell does that even mean?

  Irritated, I punch my pillow, wadding it up under my head and staring at the ceiling, wide awake, trying to shove the visual of a certain set of pearls out of my mind and focus on something else—like Rachel Ididntcatchherlastname’s perky tits, that little dicktease. Or Carmen Whatsherface’s tight little ass. Or that kinky brunette I let blow me in the library before…

  I spit into the center of my palm before it disappears down into my mesh gym shorts. For better access, I push the waistband down my hips, past my raging hard-on. Gripping the base of my rigid shaft, I give it a few pulls to take the edge off before committing to the task, pumping it in a steady rhythm until my breathing becomes harsh.

  My brow furrows in concentration and the tip of my tongue licks my bottom lip, my teeth biting down with every stroke. Shit it feels so fucking great, even though it’s my own damn hand.

  Unfortunately.

  It takes me a few minutes to get off, and with a few more jerks I blow my load, groaning when my palm is filled with warm, sticky cum.

  And like every romantic cliché in the existence of time, it’s not the gorgeous, flawless face of a hot blonde I’m whacking off to, but the fresh face of Jameson Clark. Her immaculate hair. Her clear eyes. Those black glasses perched on her nose.

  The universe is a bitchy, relentless mistress indeed.

  Rising from bed, I snap the elastic waistband of my shorts around my lean hips, run a hand over my six-pack, and pad barefoot to the communal bathroom I share with three other guys to rinse my hands—and my cock.

  Jameson

  My heart is still beating a mile a minute when I climb into bed, flick the light off, and flop down on my back to stare at the ceiling.

  Oz.

  Oz the asshole.

  Cocksure. Ridiculous. Aggravating.

  Lewd.

  Sexy.

  Oh god he was sexy. The things his tongue did to my mouth in the short amount of time we were kissing are still taking my breath away, if my labored breathing is any indication.

  Hair fanned out across my pillow, my hand slowly traces the exposed skin of my hipbone. My boxers are threadbare and folded down at the waistband, my fingers brushing…brushing along the elastic seam.

  Closing my eyes, I let them trail inside my shorts, teasing myself with a light caress. Back and forth…closer and closer to the apex of my thighs until my legs, of their own accord, spread just a bit wider.

  Oz…

  Huge.

  Firm.

  Tattooed.

  Tall Oz loomed over my table like some kind of modern day gladiator, broad and imposing.

  Bored.

  His penetrating eyes had looked down at me warily, if not fully jaded…but that can’t be right; guys like him have the world by the ass and don’t appreciate it. And yet...as he stood there, mocking me, there was no mistaking the lack of enthusiasm for his quest.

  Until I’d lain my mouth on his.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering his lips. Full, soft, and gentle—if one ignored the sardonic smirk. His tongue—

  Oh god.

  Not my type, not my type, not my type, I chant.

  Not my type at all.

  Yet here I am, moaning in the dark, my fingers finally finding that one wet, aching sweet spot I’ve neglected far too long. Stroking myself, my eyelids flutter shut and I drown in the vivid image of Oz Osborne. Imposing. Potent.

  Serious.

  There’s more behind that boastful smirk than he’s presenting to people for show, of that I’m sure.

  Not someone I’ve ever seen around campus, he came out of nowhere tonight with his hulky body and arrogant countenance—like he owned the place. What kind of guy demands control of a library for heaven’s sake? God, I can’t stand guys like that, conceited and full of themselves.

  And yet…

  The fingers from my free hand find my mouth in the dark, resting on my lips while I stroke myself with the other. Chaffed from the scruff on his face, my mouth feels branded, despite the mercenary intent of our kiss.

  Oz.

  I roll over and face the wall, groaning at the memory of his powerful arms; I’m a sucker for tattoos, and he had an armful beneath the sleeves of that worn navy blue tee shirt. His strong, dense arms. Solid chest. Toned back.

  He’s not my type. I have to keep reminding myself of that as I stroke between my legs, seeking that release.

  He’s not my type. He’s…

  A long, blissful sigh on a cold spring night. An incredible moment I won’t soon forget. A
vain, stubborn ass with deplorable taste in company.

  He’s everything I don’t want.

  And yet…

  Somehow he is.

  Sebastian

  “Dude, isn’t that the chick from the library?” Zeke nudges me with a meaty elbow, though I can barely hear him over the throng and the music. I lean in closer. “What the fuck is she doing out in public? Shouldn’t she be cataloging books or some shit?” he complains unnecessarily.

  “Looks like she came back for another piece of the big D.” Dylan laughs next to him, smacking me in the bicep. “That kiss she gave you the other night was hot.”

  Yeah. It was.

  “I went home and jerked off to it,” Zeke admits, taking a pull off his beer bottle. “I had the worst stiffy walking home.”

  Yeah. Me too.

  My gaze searches the room, finally landing on Jameson huddled near the door wearing a heavy winter jacket—full-length goose down—along with mittens and a scarf. I cringe inwardly, wondering what the hell she’s doing here, and why the fuck she’s dressed like a goddamn Eskimo princess.

  None of the other chicks here are wearing clothes—well, they are, but barely—and here comes Jameson Clark, bundled up for a trip to the Arctic Circle.

  It’s thirty degrees outside, not thirty below.

  Still, I watch her enter the living room with a small group of friends; one I recognize as a regular on the fraternity row party circuit, another is my roommate Parker’s regular fuck buddy. All of them are very nice girls, I’m sure, but with groupie mentalities—though not a single one of them is as conservative and buttoned up as James.

  Jameson. Jim.

  I try to listen as Zeke criticizes beside me, but instead find myself glued to James as she slowly lowers the zipper on her puffy coat. Drags the zipper slowly down her body. Pulls the lapels apart, arching her spine to pull her arms free.

  Tossing her head back, she laughs at something Fuck Buddy says and does an odd little dance on her heels as her friends grab the end of her scarf and unwind. Then, all together, they remove Jameson’s thick mittens and stuff them in the pockets of her puffy coat.

  She shakes out her long, dark brown hair.