The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(39)

“Uh, sure.”

Oz sits up then, reaching for the hem of his hoodie and pulling it up over the top of his head then rolling it up. His intended target? My chest.

He comes at me, attempting to jam the wadded up sweatshirt under my chin.

I dodge the bundle headed in my direction, toward my face. “Whoa buddy. Whoa. Um, what are you doing?”

He gives me a look. “Uh, making a pillow. Sometimes shoulder bones are lumpy.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. “Fine, but I don’t necessarily want to be suffocated by you cramming your sweatshirt under my neck. Here, let me do the honors; I don’t need you crushing my trachea.”

Oz hands over his makeshift pillow and I refold it then roll it up. Reclining against the seat, I fold up the armrest to make more room and fit the hoodie in the crook of my neck.

Ahh, perfect. “I’ll close my eyes, too, I guess.”

A short nap can’t hurt.

“Thanks, Jim.”

His large frame shifts to get comfortable, long legs stretched, feet under the seat in front of us. It’s like fitting a square peg into a round hole; he just doesn’t fit.

More flip flopping, more disgruntled sighs, and his body gets twisted into a fetal-like position—no small feat for a man of his size in the cramped space we’re given.

I pause at that word: man.

Oz is a man. A solid, sexual, funny, clever, smart man.

Whose cheek is buried in the crook of my neck, the silky strands of hair on his gorgeous head tickling my nose when I tilt my neck to accommodate him.

He really is huge.

I gasp when his torso twists and he flips to try to find more room, shifting positions, nose buried in my chest. Slips his bulky, tattooed arms around my waist to get comfy, my arms shoved uselessly above his back for lack of place to put them.

“Relax Jimbo. It’s just a nap,” his lips murmur into the hollow of my neck, arms giving my waist a squeeze. His hot breath strokes my collarbone. “And it’s okay to touch me.”

He’s right; I need to relax.

I allow myself a brief moment to appraise him, curled up in his seat, leaning into me. Embracing me, really, cuddling me like his favorite teddy bear. The smell of him assaults me: peppermint breath, masculine shampoo. Clean. Male. The scent of him makes my mouth water and my body ache.

The smell of him makes me thirsty.

Soft cotton short-sleeved shirt bares his powerful arms. Black and flesh-colored tattoos cover the entire left bicep, wrap around his forearm, and end at the wrist. His hands are large, calloused. Working hands.

Those hands tell a story. They’re solid. And…dependable.

They cause pain.

Bring pleasure.

Slowly, of their own violation, my palms find purchase on his deltoids, sliding up the smooth fabric of his shirt in one languid motion, memorizing the hard planes beneath. The pads of my fingertips trace each curve curiously, learning the shape of him.

Those same fingertips dig into the corded muscles of his thick neck. Kneading. Massaging.

Memorizing.

“Damn Jim, that feels good,” he croaks into the wadded up hoodie still jammed between us.

“Go to sleep, Oswald,” I croon into his hair, feeling more for him at this moment than I’ve allowed myself to admit.

I know better than this. This guy is an energy-filled livewire of testosterone; he’s the opposite of what I’m looking for despite not really knowing what that is.

He sleeps around. He’s callous. Crude. Rude. Insensitive.

Totally inappropriate.

Pensively, I stare down at the crown of his hair, resisting the urge to inhale. Regardless, I catch an intoxicating whiff of his shampoo—actually, it’s my shampoo because he stole it—and close my eyes, savoring the differences between us.

His hard to my soft. His outspokenness to my tact. His virile to my…

Holy crap, I need to get laid.

But Sebastian Osborne is the last thing I need. The last person I need to…lay me.

There was a time I used to worry about never finding the one. Worry I was going to be alone forever with no one to come home to at night but the dog. Or cat. Or fish. In fact, most of my friends were happily single. Wanted to be.

On purpose.

Free to do whatever and whomever they wanted.

I think I woke up one morning and decided it didn’t matter any more; not having a man in my life wasn’t going to define me, wasn’t going to make me feel less whole or undesirable.

Undesirable. What a ridiculous thing to say at the age of twenty-one.

Undesirable—maybe it’s too strong a word because men did desire me; I just didn’t desire most of them back. Sure, I was up for the occasional meaningless one-night stand; I probably had my hand down my own pajama bottoms more often than Oz did down his.

But maybe a hookup to take the edge off wasn’t enough.

Not any more.

Or maybe not a hookup with him.

Although I sit here, wrapped in the arms of a guy who wants to screw my brains out—a guy who’d screw me into a twelve-hour coma if I let him—I couldn’t make myself say the word yes.

Yes.

What was stopping me from letting him?

The heat pooling between my legs has me fidgeting in my seat.

“I can hear you thinking,” Oz murmurs. “Babe, relax.”

Babe.