How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  Jameson picks an imaginary piece of lint off the front of her tee shirt then stares over my shoulder off into the yard. “No thanks.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A short laugh that does nothing to conceal the hurt shining in her eyes. “Oh yeah—I’m sure.”

  “But I’ll see you on Monday at the gym when I get back from my meet, right?”

  She throws me a curt nod. “A deal is a deal. I promised I’d let you pin me to the mat, so I’m going to let you pin me to the mat.”

  “Eleven fifteen?”

  Jameson sighs. “I’ll be there, Sebastian. Quit nagging.”

  “Wearing a singlet?”

  A soft chuckle. “No, I won’t be wearing a singlet.”

  “But they’re the required uniform.”

  “How about I don’t.”

  I think about this for a second, the mental image of Jameson wearing nothing but a basic black leotard too much for me to resist. All that exposed, smooth, creamy skin. “Rule number eight: we both have to be properly attired if we’re doing this. Do the best you can to find something black.” And tight. And fitted.

  A loud, drawn-out sigh. “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Great.” She pushes away, a smile threatening to crack the thin line of her lips.

  “All right then, we agree. Oh, and James?”

  “Yes, Oswald?” This time she does give me a smirk, a plastered on, shit-eating grin at the use of her nickname for me—one I plan to wipe off with my next pronouncement, raking her body up and down with my dark, hooded eyes.

  “We don’t wear anything under our singlets.”

  Her worried brows shoot up. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  I leave her there, standing on the porch with her mouth hanging open. Turning, I strut to my truck, whistling the entire way.

  Jameson

  Nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the sight of Sebastian Osborne in his wrestling singlet—not the google search images, not the marketing shots from the university’s athletic department, not even the vivid visuals fueled by my overactive imagination.

  Last week’s drama with Sydney evaporates, replaced by the sight of him in that sleek, body-hugging spandex—it is nothing short of a miracle.

  God’s gift to women.

  A dreadful poly one-piece constructed solely to plague my estrogen levels.

  It shows off. Absolutely. Everything.

  Black with the school’s mascot in the center, the low cut straps over his shoulders hug his muscular pecs, dipping down to showcase his lower body. His abdominals. His sternum. From his hard nipples to the valley of his well-developed chest…

  His everything. I can see every gloriously well-defined detail.

  Ugh.

  I watch him stretching on the balls of his feet before he sees me emerging from the locker room of the wrestlers’ designated practice gym. I examine the padded center of the room, feigning interest in the gleaming hardwood floor and the freshly painted school logo painted on the concrete cinderblock walls.

  Oz stands, hands on his lean hips, grin spreading across his face when he catches sight of me walking out of the locker room dressed only in a plain black ballet leotard—one I raced around town like a madwoman to hunt down, realizing too late there are zero dance stores in this college town. The only place selling anything remotely close to a leo is Target, and theirs?

  Theirs are for children.

  So yeah. I’m wearing a kid’s extra large, which doesn’t exactly fit. In fact, it doesn’t fit at all.

  Black, sleeveless, and extremely tight, I try to ignore it and force myself across the cold wooden floor, pulling at the fabric riding up my butt crack. All because Oz is an asshole who insisted I wear one.

  A single light shines above an azure mat in the center of the gym floor, a hanging light bulb, just like you’d see in the movies.

  Darkness shrouds the recesses of the room.

  I point to the light above. “Uh, did you plan this? It’s way creepy.”

  He smirks. “I may or may not know the custodial staff, and now I owe them a favor.” He looks me up and down. “You look hot by the way.”

  Insecurely, I pull at the straps barely coving my breasts. Because I. Am. An. Idiot. “Hot as in ‘cheap stripper’?”

  “No. Hot as in ‘cheap ballerina stripper’. Where did you get that thing, anyway?”

  “Target, because I didn’t have time to order one from one of those online dance stores and it was the only place that had them.”

  His beautifully sculpted lips slide into a knowing curve. “Don’t you have Prime? That would have only taken two days to ship.”

  I want to face palm myself because he has a very valid point. Instead I ignore the question completely. “I’m freezing here; can we get this over with? I feel like I’m about to be put under a microscope.”

  Advancing farther into the room across the shiny, polished hardwood floor. Conscious of my bare, colorless legs. My pale, freckled arms. My pink painted toes that could use a fresh coat of polish.

  Hyperaware of Sebastian watching me pad barefoot across the room, I try not to stare at his masculine glory. His taut broad body. His lean hips. His massive thighs. His sinewy, rippling biceps. His bulging…

  Oh god.

  I can’t look.

  But I have to look.

  My depraved eyes travel wantonly from his defined collarbone down to his hard-as-rock pecs and flat, toned abs, every inch of his long, thick dick visible under his thin, tight singlet.

  Lord bless the designer of that horrible outfit.

  My eyes widen when they settle on the length of him, glaringly obvious in the spandex fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination because he is wearing nothing underneath.

  Not even a jock strap.

  I swallow.

  Take a few more cautious steps.

  Hesitate.

  “Scared?” his voice inquires, not really in a taunt. I’m surprised when he sounds…sincere. Caring. “Excited?”

  “It’s hard to get excited when you don’t know what to expect.” I cross my arms over the breasts I always considered porcelain; they haven’t seen the sun in months and now they just feel…white. White, white, white.

  “So you are scared.”

  I give a single nod. “A little.”

  “Don’t be. I’m going to take real good care of you.” He moves under the single dim light. “You might even like it.”

  I gulp down my nerves. “Not likely.”

  “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”

  “You’ve been pissing me off lately.” I give a little indignant huff. “You’re lucky I showed up.”

  “We had a deal.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  His hooded gaze drifts up and down my person so excruciatingly unrushed that goose bumps develop all over my skin, over my entire body.

  I shiver.

  “Uncross your arms, Jim.” He gives his hands a clap. “Let’s get this party started.”

  I can’t help it—I let a nervous giggle bubble out of me, drop my arms to my sides, and stand there awkwardly, fidgeting. “When you call it a party it doesn’t sound so horrible.”

  His enormous palms rub together gleefully. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but pinning you down all day. Having you under me.” He takes one deliberate step toward me at a time. “Not studying.” Step. “Not practice.” Step. “Not work.”

  He stops, the barest inch of space separating us.

  Barely.

  “And here you are. Jameson Clark, in my gym.” The heat radiating between us is combustible. “So. What are we going to do about this, Jim. Any suggestions?”

  Two black leotards. Two sleek figures.

  One hard, one soft.

  Raising my eyes to meet his, I manage to shake my head back and forth, mouth dry.

  “Nothing? Really James? No suggestions, not even one? Good thing I hav
e a few for the both of us.”

  He makes the simple statement sound dirty and pervy and hot.

  My estrogen levels skyrocket, ovaries tingling on vibrate.

  Sebastian’s warm hand grips my arm, sliding gradually up toward my elbow. I shiver while my lady bits do…other inappropriate things.

  “Okay Jimbo.” His voice is low. Erotic. “This is what we’re going to do: I’m going to show you how to get in position, then I’m going to flip you on your back. Okay?”

  I stare at his pecs.

  “Jim, nod if you understand.”

  I bob my head up and down.

  He smiles down at me, all testosterone and sex appeal, cupping my chin in his huge hand. “God you’re fucking cute.”

  Cute? Ugh.

  “Bend your knees like this and mimic my stance.” He releases me and steps back, squatting and separating his legs slightly, knees bent and back arched. “The point is to center your gravity.”

  I mimic his stance. “Like this?”

  “Just like that Jameson.” His voice is a gentle stroke, soft and sexy and low, and I blush at the sound of it, my ovaries giving another sigh. “Now. Spread your legs—yeah, spread them like that—and step with your lead foot, like this. We call this the power leg.”

  With my quivering right foot, I step forward.

  “Now raise your hands to a guardian stance.” He nods his approval when I do it correctly, eyes scanning my body. “I’m going to lower my head and aim at your hip, okay? Because I’m bigger, I’ll be able to maneuver you into the position I need you to be in so I can lift you.”

  I’m just barely able to nod my consent. My breath is labored and I can scarcely stand the thought of him touching me, let alone manhandling me, without getting hot and aching all over.

  Hot and aching and wet. I’ll have to suffer through it…

  He regards me, leisurely and cool, taking his sweet, sweet, tortured time studying me. Gauging. Calculating. Painfully slowly.

  Under his veiled gaze, my nipples harden and his nostrils flare when those same heated eyes graze my breasts, land and stay there.

  “No pearls today?” he asks.

  “No pearls,” I whisper.

  “Damn shame,” he whispers back.

  He lowers his stance again, legs bent at a low angle, on the balls of his feet to find his center of gravity. Advances toward me with his palms outstretched, hands reaching low. Reaching until those large mitts skim the inner thigh of each leg.

  My breath hitches when his thumbs stroke that clean-shaven valley between my legs before slipping his hands over my hips to cup my butt cheeks.

  “That is not a wrestling technique.” I gasp when he gets a little too close to my crack for comfort, glides his hands up my back and presses with light strokes.

  “It should be,” he mutters. “This is more exciting than the first time I had you under me, probably because this time I can see your boobs—they’re fantastic.”

  Before I can protest, his large hands are under my thighs, grappling my ass.

  My feet are hoisted effortlessly off the ground.

  Lifted.

  Flipping.

  Back flat against the cool plastic, I’m unexpectedly sprawled out on the mat, staring at the ceiling, my loose hair fanned out around me.

  My breath hitches when Oz shifts the arm he has hooked under my left leg, the calloused pads of his coarse hands gently gliding up the pale skin of my calf. He strokes it up and down until my breath comes hard.

  “There, there,” he soothes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “You make it look so easy.”

  “That’s because I’m good at it,” he teases, hovering above me, arms cradling my head in his large palms, caressing my hair. “And because you’re tiny.”

  “I only feel tiny because you’re so big.”

  Everywhere.

  His right eyebrow rises, mouth quirking into a smirk. “True. I am big.”

  Everywhere.

  Those coarse fingers float deliberately over my leg, lingering at the baby fine skin near my crotch, palm flat, his thumb stroking my bare bikini line. My intake of breath is sharp; Sebastian’s thumb hooks the fabric at the seam of my leotard, drawing it away from my skin, flirting dangerously close to my…to where I want it most.

  Oh lord.

  His touch is the barest tremor from a sigh and I feel…so good I could orgasm from it if I let myself.

  I feel the heat rising up my chest, resisting the urge to fan the blush on my cheeks. I’ve never found it this hard to breathe, have I? Never found it this hard not to wiggle my hips. It takes all my willpower not to squirm beneath him. Rub. Wiggle.

  I bite down a moan.

  He’s not my type, he’s not my type, he’s not my type.

  “Was it really necessary for me to wear this stupid leotard?” He needs to take his hand out of it before I embarrass myself.

  “No,” he purrs. “Of course not, but I also didn’t think it was fair for me to be the only one showing off the merchandise.”

  “And I fell for it.”

  “Hook, line, sinker. There’s a sucker born every minute,” his lips say while his fingers finally travel to stroke my hipbones.

  “Are you calling me naïve?”

  “No, but I’m hoping you’re a sucker—because I am.”

  “Well that was a tad pervy.”

  The air around us is as thick as the cords of his neck, as the rigid length of him that’s pressed against my inner thigh, straining inside the spandex singlet.

  “One.” He hums out the count, pounding the mat with the flat of his palm. “Two.” His head dips. “Three. To the victor go the spoils.”

  Head bent, his tongue does a leisurely, wet glide between the valley of my plumped breasts; from the scooped neckline of my spandex, he licks all the way up to my clavicle. Slow. Sexy. Nips my collarbone and sucks.

  Wet. Hot.

  Wet.

  Oh sweet baby Jesus holy mother of—

  “Stop.” I gasp when he licks my neck. “Sebastian, stop.” I gasp again. God, it feels too, too good. “Rule number nine: don’t do it if you don’t mean it.”

  “Oh, I fucking mean it,” he growls into my neck, his tongue declaring warfare on every cell in my body. Behind my ear. Across my collarbone. My aching, desperate body.

  “That’s not what I mean. I don’t think I can do this. Not with you. I’m sorry; as much as I…”

  As much as I want him, want his body and want the feel of him on top of me—I can’t do it. I just can’t do what he’s done with countless other women that came before me unless I’ve thought it through. Spontaneous hookups aren’t my thing anymore.

  He pulls back to look at me, face an unreadable mask. “Don’t apologize. I get it. I’ll stop.”

  I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I let it go, air expelling from my lungs in a disappointed puff. Stupid, stupid James, thinking maybe he’d say something different. Thinking maybe he’d try to change my mind.

  Thinking maybe…

  Nope.

  He doesn’t.

  Instead, he gazes down at me, taking my measure. Taking me in. Lowers his head again and brushes the corner of my lips with his mouth. One side then the other, way too lovingly for my heart not to sob out its regret. Plants a soft kiss on my temple. Cheek. The corner of my eyes, causing them to flutter closed of their own accord. Fluttering, fluttering closed with a sigh.

  That. That right there—my favorite spot to be kissed: the tender skin just beneath my lower lashes.

  “You might be saying you can’t,” he hums near my ear. “But you like that, don’t you, Jim?”

  I muster a brutally honest and breathy, “Ugh, yes.”

  God yes.

  “Should I do it again?” Purr.

  Yes please, says my nod.

  He does. Rains tiny kisses onto that delicate skin. Soft kisses. Caring. One at a time, the pitter patter of my beating heart keeping time with
the rhythm of his gorgeous lips.

  Warm full lips cover my mouth gently, and for the barest hint of a second, my eyes open, wanting to glimpse this tender moment between us. Remember it.

  Sebastian’s eyes are closed. Cheekbones high. Lips—oh those lips—resting upon mine, waiting. Seeking. Asking.

  I answer, slowly parting my pout, tongue hesitantly exploring his. They mingle. Suck. Twirl until we’re both moaning into each other.

  “God, James, I want…”

  His large hand rubs my inner thigh tenderly, runs the length of my hip and over the cheap polyester of my ill-fitted black leotard while his lips work my mouth. Up toward my sensitive breasts. Dragging an index finger along their undersides, he drags it languidly back and forth against my sensitive flesh until I’m arching my back, wanting him to touch me.

  Do anything—anything—to me. Wanting more. Wanting more than a few quick strokes on a sterile gymnasium floor.

  I whimper when his mouth breaks contact. “Yes Sebastian? What do you want?”

  Me. Say you want me. Say you want to date me and spend time with me and get to know me. Not just have sex with me on a cold gym floor.

  Say the words and I’m yours.

  “James baby, I want you to ride me all the way to sex town.”

  Wait.

  What?

  He did not just say that. “What did you just say to me?”

  A deep chuckle rumbles his chest. “I’ve always wanted to get laid on these mats. Call it a crazy kid fantasy. You up for it?”

  It’s official: he’s a douche and the moment is ruined.

  “Honestly Oz? I have no idea what to say but no. No, I don’t want to have sex on these wrestling mats. I—that is not what I was expecting you to say.”

  His fingers brush a few errant hairs out of my eyes. “What were you expecting?”

  I give a short, sardonic laugh. “I thought you liked me.”

  “I do like you.”

  “No Oz. I thought you liked me. Enough to, you know…” Oh god, how do I say this. “Enough to want something more. Last week when you went out with Sydney, it kind of hurt my feelings.”

  Now he’s pulling away slightly, his long, firm body still hovering. “Shit, I knew you were jealous.”