The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(24)

My attention is drawn to those hands like a moth to a flame; I look down and study them, pale and fragile, the short nails filed and painted a glossy peachy pink color. I look up at the elegant pearl necklace adorning her slim neck, the lavender of her cardigan sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

The gleaming, delicate gold watch circling her tantalizing wrist.

Jameson bites down on her bottom lip, sucks on it a few seconds, then inhales. Exhales a long, exalting sigh as she musters up her courage. “Okay *. Sebastian.” She breathes my name serenely, the words more a tender caress than profane.

The first sign of my dick involuntary hardening has me at full attention when she continues, voice quiet. “You want a curse word, but I’ll do you one better to shock you. Ready? I’m most definitely not a virgin. And I’m definitely not…wearing…any…” She leans in all the way, her soft breath tickling the lobe of my ear from across the table. “Panties.”

She stops breathing the same time I do, the boardroom table in front of us a monolith of epic proportion, stretched wide, separating me from her pantie-less *. She shifts in her seat, shooting me a guilty glance; she’s wet, I just f*cking know it.

“Is that an invitation?” I whisper back, palms splayed on the table and coming up out of my chair, ready to pounce. I’d bang her right on this table if she’d let me.

“No.” She breathes.

“You sure about that?”

Another whisper. “Yes.”

“But not yes as in, ‘Yes Oz, yes! Harder! Yes Oz, right there?” The words come out in an adolescent croak, my voice cracking as I fight the urge to readjust the bulge in my stiff denim.

The entreaty travels across the silent room to its intended target, drifting listlessly, weaving its way into Jameson’s black leggings. She shifts again in her chair, lifting her rear off the seat uncomfortably.

“No.”

“You know you’re breaking my heart, don’t you, Jim?”

“Yes.”

Yes, yes, yes.

“Fuck.”

Suddenly and without warning, Jameson stands, the leather chair falling back and hitting the wall. She collects her things, closing her laptop and scooping everything into her book bag.

“Maybe I should go. I’m not cut out for whatever this is, and I didn’t come here to get harassed, so clearly I’m not your type of girl.”

My mouth falls open, but nothing comes out—no protests, no jokes, no innuendos.

Shit.

“Jim, c’mon—sit down. I’m kidding.”

Her bag slung over her shoulder, she drops a pencil to the carpeted floor but doesn’t bend to pick it up.

Probably because she’s not wearing any f*cking underwear.

I groan at the thought.

“Stay—please. God dammit, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll stop being an *.”

“You’re a nice guy, okay? I think you’re neat. But you’re not getting in my pants, so I wish you’d stop wasting your time.”

Hold up. Did she just call me… “Neat?”

“Yeah, neat.” Her head shakes with a laugh. “I’ll see you around, Oz. Do the women of the world a favor and try to behave yourself.”

Another heartbeat and she’s gone, nothing left but the door slamming behind her and the musky smell of her perfume.

I’m left sitting alone under the florescent lights of the sterile study room. She’ll see me around?

Behave?

Yeah, no. There’s nothing I love more than a challenge, and Jameson Clark just triggered my competitive reflexes.

I tap a few keys on my laptop before an idea pops into my head.

A genius, totally outrageous idea.

See me around?

You bet your tight little ass you will.





Jameson




“I still cannot believe the nerve of him!” I practically shout, slamming out of the campus union, my voice carrying through the courtyard, echoing among the sparse trees and frozen ground. Several students walking down the shoveled concrete path swivel their heads and glare in my direction, curiously. “That…that…*!”

Undeterred, I stalk across campus, eyes set on one building, and one building alone.

My day had been going great; after a long, sleepless night, I had finally put Sebastian Osborne out of my mind, aced my chemistry lab test, and scored the last rice crispy treat out of the vending machine in the cafeteria.

All before ten o’clock.

With a whistle and a spring in my step, I’d sauntered into the ski and snowboard office to gather whatever last minute travel information I needed for my trip tomorrow. I had nary a care in the world before Chad Hanson, our president, announced, “Hey James, we have a last minute addition coming on the spring break trip this year. He signed up late last night, paid in full by credit card.”

Chad had paused then, shuffled a stack of papers, and cleared his throat, flipping the long hair out of his green eyes before addressing me again.

“James? Did you hear me?”

Shaking my head, I had planted a cheery smile on my face.

“Sorry, I don’t know what my problem is. What were you saying?”

“We have a new guy signed up for the trip—Sebastian Osborne, if you can believe it. Why didn’t you tell me he was your cousin? He called before I closed the office last night and paid for the trip with a credit card. Weird, huh?”