The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(37)

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 tournament…

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 f*cked 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?”