How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  Her blue eyes roll to the back of her head. “If we’re staying in, then I’m getting ready for bed.”

  I point to the offensive tank top. “Not in that shit you’re not. No. Jim, we established this on day one; that shirt makes me want to bone you. Hard.”

  An unladylike snort leaves her nose. “Remind me again how that is my problem, because right now I’m not really in the mood to take orders from you.”

  “If you wear it, you’re breaking rule three: no running around bra-less.”

  “Try and stop me from wearing it, Neanderthal.” Jameson postures with bravado, backing into the dresser, eyes darting to the open bathroom door. Her bare foot inches toward it.

  She’s going to make a run for it.

  I’m remarkably calm for someone about to strike. I bear down on her.

  Mouse, meet cat. Meow.

  “Don’t even think about it, Clark.”

  She’d roll her eyes at me if they weren’t glued to the bathroom door. “Pfft. Think about what?”

  “That innocent act isn’t going to work on me, but nice fuckin’ try.” Tsk, tsk. “You’re not going anywhere with that tank top, either, Jimbo.” I extend my arm, palm up, and wiggle my fingers. “Hand it over.”

  Jameson huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, blue eyes sparkling. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “No, but I can pin you to the ground and take it from you.” The thought gets me excited and my blood surges. “How about I give you a two-second lead. One—”

  I don’t even finish the count because Jameson lunges toward the bathroom, light on her feet and quicker than a track team sprinter. I lunge for her but she switches trajectories, makes a quick right, dodges my outstretched arms, and dives for the bed.

  Falling a few inches short, she scrambles on top of it then rises to stand in the center, waving the threadbare tank top above her head like a victory flag.

  “Yes! Suck it!” she bellows, fist pumping the air and jumping up and down on the cheap, shoddy mattress. Arms outstretched, I wince at the sight of her remarkable tits bouncing with the motion. “Suck it, Osborne.”

  “Aww, aren’t you just the cutest.” I cross my thick, tattooed arms over my chest. “Don’t be so damn quick to celebrate, Clark. You’re stranded up there now.”

  That wipes the cocky smirk from her face.

  “Dammit,” comes her breathy curse. She bites down on her bottom lip before removing a stray hair from her mouth. “I loathe you right now.”

  No she doesn’t.

  “You’re kind of fucked.” I’m catlike in my approach, creeping across the carpet like a predator stalking its prey. “Which is too bad, because I’m really enjoying this.”

  Meow.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she whispers. Her flimsy white tank top is clutched to her chest, providing zero protection.

  “What would you like me to do?” Because I can come up with a million different ideas, all of them involving legs, tits, and ass. And nudity. Lots and lots of nudity.

  “Um…” Her eyes dart from me, to the bathroom, to the dresser. Me. Bathroom. Dresser.

  Me.

  Poor thing is planning her exit strategy, but it’s clear she’s failing miserably because she’s still standing in the middle of the bed; I give her an A for effort, but a big fat F for execution.

  “You could make a run for it,” I start, altruistically spreading my hands wide. “Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’m going to come over there and—whoa! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I watch as she drops the white tank on the bed and reaches for the waistband of her black wool leggings. Balancing on the squishy mattress while she shoves them down past her hips, knees, and ankles, she steps out of them and they get tossed listlessly to the floor.

  My eyes hit the skimpy baby blue underwear covering the patch between her smooth, sexy legs.

  Lace. My weakness.

  “You put those goddamn pants back on this instant,” I thunder, taking a step forward.

  “You sound like someone’s father.” Jameson laughs, reaching for the hem of her thick, wool ski sweater. “And I’m not going to be calling you Daddy any time soon.”

  She pulls the sweater higher, exposing a pale expanse of well-toned abdomen.

  “Stop it. What the hell are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing, genius?” Her muffled laughter taunts me. “Payback’s a bitch.”

  She lets out a shriek then a gasp when my arms go around her bare waist and I plow her into the mattress, flipping her down onto her back, pile-driver style.

  “Oz!” She belly laughs. “Get off me!”

  “Say the magic word,” I tease, hovering above her. Like magnets to metal, my fingers find the bare skin of her thigh and land there by gravitational pull. Skimming lightly, they don’t stop until they find the wooly bottom of her sweater.

  Tug. Tug that shit down so it covers up her taut stomach, because God forbid I have to look at that shit right now and keep my hands to myself.

  Easier said than done.

  I lean into her until I’ve lightly nudged her delicate shoulders flat on the mattress, hook under her legs until they’re cradled in my arms, and stare down at her.

  “Say the magic word,” I repeat, my voice raspier than intended and far more serious.

  “The magic word.” Little smartass.

  My head dips low, whispering in the hollow of her neck. “Nope, not it. Try again.”

  Burning hot, my hand moves from the backside of her knee. It tracks unhurried up her smooth, shaved thigh, imprinting its searing hot need on her skin. Spreading my palm wide, my thumb strokes that intoxicating indentation of her bikini line.

  She lets me.

  It’s smooth and completely hairless and now I’m fucking dying to know: “Do you wax your pussy, Jameson?”

  A little whimper and a whispered, “No, I shave it,” has me aching to see it. Touch it. Taste it.

  Under the plain cardigan sweaters, the prim pearl necklace, the refined black patent leather shoes, Jameson Clark is sporting some prime, Grade A hairless pussycat inside her pants.

  And I want to play with it.

  “Goddamn that’s sexy.” She’s sexy, all of her. Every last conservative inch.

  My thumb brushes the seam of her panties and she gasps like a good girl. I angle toward her, wanting to press my mouth on her visible bare skin.

  Jameson licks her lips. “Oz, please.”

  “Please? Please what?” Please beg me to bang you.

  “Let me up?”

  She doesn’t sound convinced that’s what she wants, not in the least. Not with all the panting. Not with her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. She sounds like she’s relishing the press of my hard body, the contact of our pelvises as I gently pin her to the mattress in a classic wrestling move.

  I inch away, giving her space, help her rise by taking her hand and pulling her up. Those high cheekbones flush and she looks away with a huff when she’s back on her feet. Hot. Bothered.

  Flustered.

  “Fine. I won’t wear the tank top. You win,” she mutters, avoiding my dark eyes. “Give me your shirt.”

  I stand, adjust the raging hard-on inside my pants, and cross the room. I grab the shirt that’s been folded into a neat cotton square off the dresser, and, lifting it to my nose, I give it a whiff. “Mmm, smells like you. I’ll probably never wash it again.”

  Jameson’s trembling hands reach for it. “Just give it to me.”

  “See? Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about…”

  Jameson

  Oh my god, I have to pee.

  Bad.

  In total darkness, I ungraciously slide out of bed as quietly as I can so I don’t wake a slumbering Oz—who, it turns out, is a total bed hog—and feel my way along the wood-paneled wall in the general direction of the bathroom.

  Thankfully, the light is
already on, the overhead light above the tub emitting a dull glow. I have to pee so bad my fingers are already inside the waistband of my underwear when I beeline for the toilet in a squat. Shoving them down around my ankles, I lower myself with a relieved groan.

  I pee, eyes squeezed shut to ward out the glow, only cracking them open when I fail to find the end of the toilet paper.

  I shimmy my sheer, blue underwear up my slender thighs.

  Turn to flush.

  Raise my head to check myself in mirror as I wash my—

  “Fuck Jameson.” My name is drawn out in a husky, forced moan.

  I gasp, scared shitless.

  “Holy shit!” I yell, swatting a startled hand toward Oz. If I had a weapon, I’d club him with it. “You asshole! You scared the crap out of me—”

  “Fuck Jameson.”

  “Wh-what…I’m so sorry. I thought you were in bed!”

  I spin toward the sink, our eyes meeting in the mirror, mine widening in shock, his in pleasure, then I finally let them trail down his thick, bent, pumping arm. Red mesh athletic shorts pool around his ankles, his large hand wrapped around the length of his hard—

  “Oh my god.”

  I do a swift check, just to be sure. Yup. Sebastian Osborne is masturbating in the bathroom, and I just peed two feet from him.

  Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.

  And if I’m being honest, I don’t want to.

  Sebastian

  “Oh my god Oz, what the hell are you doing!” The high-pitched indignation is completely unnecessary as Jameson meets my aroused, half-lidded eyes in the mirror. Hers are round with shock and horror and something else entirely as she casts surreptitious glances down at my stroking palm.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  “I would think it was pretty obvious what I’m doing,” I grunt out, words catching with each even stroke. “Besides, this is your fault.”

  “My fault!” She stands frozen at the sink, back to me while water drips from her wet hands. “You’re masturbating while I peed, you freaking creeper! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Maybe you should have thought of all this before you stripped down to that skimpy underwear and got me hard with that shaved pussy of yours.”

  “I-I…how…”

  Another slow stroke up and down the blunt tip of my dick and my eyes flutter shut. “Everything about you makes me hard. I don’t know what my fucking problem is.” Goddamn this feels good. “Jesus Jameson, the door was closed. Who’d you think was in here?”

  “I… You didn’t lock it, jackass! Plus, it’s one o’clock in the morning! I thought you were in bed!”

  “I was. Now I’m not.”

  For the fourth time, her eyes stray, landing on the hard, pulsing cock in my hand. I pump it once while she watches and let out a satisfied groan as it gets harder while I fist it.

  “You disgust me.”

  Such a pretty little liar.

  “Do I really? Then why are you…ugh fuck me…” I pant. “Why are you still standing there? You like it, don’t you?”

  Shit, I’ve never been one for exhibitionism in the past, but having her watch me jack off gets me even harder.

  Holy hell, that little she-devil fucking likes it.

  Seconds go by before she remembers herself, before she spins on her heel and slams out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her with a bang. It rattles on its hinges but I don’t hear her footfalls walk away.

  Instead, I recognize the sound of someone slouching against the door. A few more seconds, and a throat is cleared.

  “Hey Oz?”

  I stroke myself slowly to the sound of her voice, teeth raking my bottom lip. “Yeah?”

  I stop myself from adding baby, an instinctual reply I somehow don’t think she’d appreciate.

  Another rapid stroke. Shit. Fuck. I’m so close to coming.

  “Sorry I busted in on you.”

  My thumb caresses the tip of my cock, spreads the pre-come, and I suck in a labored breath to control the inflection of my speech when the first tell of my balls tightening makes them ache.

  Somehow, I find my voice. “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure you wanna watch…oh fuck this feels good.”

  The sound of her labored breathing comes at me muted and I imagine her, forehead pressed to the cool door, listening.

  She is listening to me jerk it—I just fucking know it.

  “Say something.”

  Speech wavering, she complies. “Rule number seven,” she gulps. “No masturbating in the bathroom.”

  “James? Amend rule number seven to read: no masturbatory emissions with the door unlocked, and you have yourself a deal.”

  Unable to control it, I moan.

  “Fine.”

  The silence is almost deafening, until I hear the sound of her finally moving away.

  “Fine.” I come in my hand, in the dim bathroom.

  Alone.

  Jameson

  I can’t fall back asleep; I’m pretty sure he can’t either.

  I’m pretty sure he was moaning my name.

  Sebastian was moaning my name—and the last thing I need is to be the porn star in some jock’s nocturnal emissions.

  Both of us wide awake, the weight of the mattress dips when he shifts, moving closer toward me.

  “Hey James?”

  He’s rarely called me James since the day we met—it’s always Jim or Jimbo—and I like the sound of him whispering my name.

  Rolling toward him in the dark to seek out his voice, it sounds a mere inch away. Sharing a bed was probably a horrible idea, but there’s no turning back now, and it beats the hell out of having one of us sleep on the bodily fluid-soaked hotel floor.

  Just the thought of what’s on the carpet below gives me the heebs.

  “Yeah?”

  His voice falters, drumming the mattress with built up energy. “What’s the real reason you let me kiss you in the library?”

  It’s a good question, one I haven’t stopped thinking about since. I think of all the things I could say to him right now. I can tell him it was for the money (which I don’t need). I could tell him it’s because I felt sorry for him. I could tell him it was out of some humanitarian effort.

  Instead, I go with the truth.

  “I told you, I was curious.”

  “Curious about what?”

  “I’ve never kissed anyone like you before.”

  “What do you mean?” I hear the pleased smile; the bastard is gloating.

  Except he knows exactly what I mean, the cocky bastard; he just wants to hear me say the words out loud—not that I blame him. Don’t we all like hearing flattering things said about ourselves? Compliments. Flattery.

  Gorgeous hunks of the male persuasion being no exception.

  “Well, I wasn’t kidding when I said you weren’t my usual type.” I speak in his direction. It’s dark and I can barely make out the shape of him on the bed. “The guys I date are usually less…”

  “Hot?”

  Yes.

  I let a sigh escape my lips. “No. That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Less shredded?”

  Yes. “No. They’re usually less—”

  “Popular?”

  Yes. “Would you stop interrupting me?” Then, “Wait. Did you just call yourself popular? You know we’re not in high school, right?”

  “Babe, if you think I’m cool now, you would have been really impressed with how badass I was in high school. I was the shit.”

  I don’t doubt that for a second. Closing my eyes, I conjure up an image of high school Sebastian Osborne: tall, cocksure, and a total hottie. If I had to guess, I’d imagine he probably screwed his way around school in the back seat of his parent’s car starting freshman year, racking up first place wrestling medals and trophies after making varsity sophomore year. Going undefeated the following three years. Missing his graduation to compete in the state wrestling tourname
nt…

  Fine. I might have accidentally google stalked him.

  Accidentally.

  And no, it didn’t say anything about him having sex as a freshman—that part I made up.

  “I never said I thought you were cool.” I laugh, snuggling into my blankets and pillows with a shiver. “Cool. Who even says that any more?”

  Oz’s scoff comes out of the dark. “Cool or not, I totally would have fucked you by now if this was high school.”

  Is he for real? Thank god the lights are off, because my cheeks flush and I can feel my neck getting hot. I burrow deeper. “Um, no, you totally wouldn’t have.”

  He scoffs again, this time louder. “Oh come on, give me a break; you so would have let me bone you. No way would you have been able to resist the big D. All the chicks dug me.”

  He’s so utterly ridiculous I chuckle, but sadistically, I also find him completely charming.

  Ugh.

  “Bad news, Oz: if you think I’m a killjoy now, you should have seen me in high school. I was worse. Brace yourself for the plot twist: I was saving myself.”

  “Saving yourself for what? A convent?”

  “No idiot, for someone who respected me. Loved me. Marriage. I don’t know, I was young—or maybe I just knew I didn’t want to give it up to a fumbling, inexperienced high school kid.”

  “So who’d you end up giving the cherry to?”

  I lie silently a few seconds, ignoring the fact that he just referred to my virginity as ‘the cherry’, and contemplate my answer with a snicker. “I finally gave it up to a fumbling, inexperienced college sophomore because I was tired of waiting for a good guy to come along.”

  His chuckle comes out of the shadows. “Did you have an orgasm?”

  “I’m not answering that question.”

  “So that’s a no.”

  “Why do you… Ugh. Yes, that was a no, but I’ve made up for it since.” I shrug my shoulders in the dark.

  He hums out an, “Interesting…” Then, “So what do you consider a good guy?”

  “Are you using air quotes in the dark?”

  Oz laughs, shaking the mattress. “Yeah, how could you tell?”

  “You’re kind of a goof.” Nonetheless, I consider his question. “A good guy? Hmmm. The answer is…I have no idea. Someone respectful, I guess? Who does what they say they’re going to do. Is reliable. Who doesn’t cheat…doesn’t bullshit me.”