The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(68)

Zeke: Pizza?

Violet: Sounds delicious. No onion?

Zeke: Got it, no onion. My place at 8?

Violet: Your place at 8

Zeke: You need me to come grab you?

Violet: I can drive over, no biggie :) Zeke: You sure? I can come get you.

Violet: It sounds like you WANT to come get me…

Zeke: Shit. Here I thought I was being sneaky. And Violet?

Violet: Yeah?

Zeke: Bring a toothbrush.





Zeke



“What do you suppose Elliot and Oz think of me being here?” Violet is lying across my bed, textbooks and laptop spread out in front of her.

“Who knows.”

She considers this, pretty brow contorted. “It’s just, Oz kept gawking at me in the kitchen when we were eating. Like I was an oddity.”

“He’s odd all right.”

Violet rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. You would think your roommates haven’t seen a girl in the kitchen. The whole thing was all kinds of weird. N-No offense.”

“Oh trust me, none taken. Oz is a freak. Don’t think I didn’t catch him smiling at you like a big, dumb idiot.”

I don’t explain to Violet that the reason my roommates were acting like they’ve never seen a girl in the kitchen with me before is because they haven’t. They’ve seen girls stumbling drunk down the hallway to my bedroom. They’ve heard girls mid-coitus through our thin walls. But they’ve never seen me hanging out with one.

Technically, this is Violet’s third time here.

And technically, they did hear us mid-coitus through our thin walls.

But now I’ve started feeding her. My roommates watched me get plates and napkins and fucking cut her a slice of damn pizza—making meowing and whip-cracking sounds from the living room the whole time.

Ha fucking ha.

And when Oz and Elliot walked in to steal a few slices? They were elbowing each other in the ribcage like two juveniles and giggling. Oz took it a step further when he coughed, “pussy whipped” into his hand not once, but four times.

Total and complete fucking morons. Kyle has more maturity than the two of them combined.

Vi chews the end of her pen. “They’re goofy. What’s Elliot’s story?”

“Elliot’s story?” I shrug, taking my iPod out of its sleeve and tossing it on the bed next to her. “Actually, he’s a decent guy. Keeps to himself a lot, studies in his room. Doesn’t go out much, kind of a loner, but not in a bad way. He has goals and is pretty tunnel-visioned.”

“He sounds like my usual type.” She laughs, eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Your type?” I narrow my eyes, moving toward the bed. “What is your type?”

“You know, serious. Quiet. Studious.”

“Your type is boring.”

She flops down on her back, long, wavy blonde hair fanning out over my bedspread. “Yes, probably.”

“Well I can be quiet.”

“Sometimes.”

“And I can be serious.” What am I doing? I have nothing to prove.

“Sometimes you’re too serious, don’t you think?”

“I’m studious.”

“I know you try to be.”

“That wasn’t a nice thing to say,” I chide flirtatiously, palms hitting the mattress and brushing the books and laptop and iPad out of my way. “If I had feelings, you might have bruised one of them.”

I crawl up the bed, over the mattress, up her body, nudging her hair aside with my nose, lips brushing her ear. “You shouldn’t tease me, it isn’t nice.”

“It got you over here, didn’t it?”

I rear back, surprised. “Pixie, are you flirting with me?”

“Not on purpose.” She licks her lips, and I lower my head to place a light kiss on her mouth, arms braced on either side of her head. “Yes.”

My pecs graze her chest.

I drop my pelvis, the thickening erection between my legs brushing the apex between her thighs.

Kiss her jawline, from the tender spot below her ear to her chin…down the porcelain skin on her neck. Use my index finger to pull back the cotton of her t-shirt, leaving warm kisses in my wake. Pepper kisses on her collarbone. Glide my tongue down the vale of her breasts.

She sighs into my thick hair, fingernails stroking my scalp.

I let my hands wander.

Down the thin shirt better fit for my bedroom floor. Over her denim-clad hips. Across the belt loops of her jeans. Up and down her metal zipper.

She sighs again, her hot little palms running the length of my wide shoulder blades, fingertips pressing into each muscle. Branding them with her hot touch, learning every cord.

Our open mouths meet again in an unhurried dance—so fucking deliberate and intentional and smooth…

I’m dragging my tongue across her lips. It’s sloppy, but the little shocks zipping up my spine have me shivering, dick stiffening in my pants.

My brows furrow from the friction, pained. From her tongue. Her smell, sounds, and gentle caresses.

I glide my hand under her t-shirt along her ribcage, cupping her right breast without preamble. She’s wearing one of those little lacey bras again, the kind without wires or padding or pretense.

Just tits and lace.