The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(13)

Too sanctimonious.

Nonetheless, she does the last thing I expect her to do:

Watch.

Jameson’s perceptive perusal misses nothing as it begins a slow descent down the length of Red’s arm, following her grasping hand into the bulge of my pants. Her warm palm vice-grips my hard cock.

With half-hooded eyes, I watch Jameson Clark watching me drag my teeth over my lower lip, watching as I groan, watching when Red removes her hand from the front of my jeans, playfully zipping my fly up and down to regain my attention. Down. Up. Down. The metal teeth slide effortlessly.

My alcohol-induced haze remains on Jameson even as Red works over my cock.

James’ pale collarbone.

Her flushed cheeks.

“Leaving so soon?” I ask as casually as I can, fly hanging open, underwear bunched up at the zipper.

Jameson never misses a beat. Schooling her features, she takes a relaxed sip from her red plastic cup, staring over the rim with narrowed eyes. “Is this how you’re earning the money to pay me?”

What a bitch.

“Maybe,” I half scoff, half moan. “Are you calling me a prostitute?”

“No.” Back ramrod straight, she arches an eyebrow. “I’m just saying…you might consider charging. You could turn a tidy profit selling that body of yours.”

“That sounded oddly like a compliment.” Bracing a hand against the wall so my weak knees don’t buckle, my eyes rake Jameson up and down. “Interested in being my first paying customer?”

She laughs, the loud sound carrying over both the booming music and the redhead whining in my ear. I ignore her when she gives my arm a tug toward the bedroom.

“Interested?” Another laugh from down the hall. “Gross.”

Gross? “What the f*ck is that supposed to mean?”

“At what point do you stop using your body to prove a point?”

Am I drunk or is she enunciating every other word? Groaning, my head dips and my tongue darts out to wet my lips.

“Hey Jim.” I sigh, limply pointing down the hall. “If you want to take a piss, you went the wrong way.” I moan when Red’s hand resumes fondling my balls through the denim. “You went the wrong way,” I repeat. “It’s by the kitchen. Unless of course you want to join us in the bedroom.”

For a few unsettling moments our eyes lock.

For a few unsettling moments her eyes soften, regard me with an unrecognizable emotion and downturned mouth.

She’s disappointed.

In me.

I know it as sure as I stand here supporting myself against the wall, sloshed off my ass and twice as turned on. For the first time in almost twenty-one years, a second passes that I’m actually disgusted with myself. It’s fleeting, but those soft, sober blue eyes—thoughtful and unaffected by all the fangirl bullshit surrounding me—make me feel…

Drunk as hell and dirty and chauvinistic.

Self-conscious.

Judged and found lacking.

A minute goes by before Jameson finally spins in her ballet flats and disappears from sight.

I shake my head, disoriented but determined not to give her another thought, and…not going to lie, it’s at that moment I pull Red through the bedroom door. Instead of a blowjob, I f*ck the shit out of her against the wall.

Because I don’t want to care.

Because it feels good.

Because I can.





Sebastian



I sense her before I see her.

Don’t ask me how, but when Jameson skirts by my table, determined to avoid me, my bulk sits up straighter.

On high alert.

No greeting, she artfully weaves her way through the tables to the embankment of bookshelves at the far side of the library, firm ass sashaying in tight navy leggings, wearing tall brown boots and a brown leather tote.

Beneath my lashes, I trail her movements—her path direct, marching purposefully to the far recesses of the commons. My hands pause above the keys of my MacBook, pause to watch as she thumps her tote onto the hard table. Eases her laptop out. Plugs it in.

Aligns her pens and pencils, pushing each one into place with the tip of her finger, lining them up as if they each have a rightful spot on the desk. Calculator on the right, computer in the middle.

She takes out a small stack of notebooks, shuffling them. Spreads them out next to the pens.

My brows go up, interested, when she gently peels the rubber band from her dark hair. It shines when she gives it a shake under the dim glow of lamp light on her table then tussles it with her fingers. Black-rimmed glasses get perched on her head.

Fuck if it’s not sexy.

Good choice, Jimbo.

Ten minutes later, I’m still watching her from under the brim of my standard issue Iowa ball cap, as if I don’t have a crap load of studying to do myself. Oblivious to my surveying, she hen pecks at her computer then lowers her head to write. Scribbles something. Drinks from the straw in her water bottle. Pushes loose strands out of her face before reaching back and quickly braiding her hair.

My knee starts to bounce, on edge.

I look down at my laptop, the curser blinking in the same spot it’s been in since Jameson waltzed into the library, flippantly strolling past me like I don’t exist and plopping down nine tables away.

Yes, nine.

I counted.

Dragging the curser around my screen, I tear my gaze away long enough to tap out several sentences of my paper, the small black triangle blinking back at me, waiting for a new command. Instead, the calloused pad of my index finger traces a circle around the center mouse pad, uselessly.