The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(45)

“Are you sure?”

A short laugh that does nothing to conceal the hurt shining in her eyes. “Oh yeah—I’m sure.”

“But I’ll see you on Monday at the gym when I get back from my meet, right?”

She throws me a curt nod. “A deal is a deal. I promised I’d let you pin me to the mat, so I’m going to let you pin me to the mat.”

“Eleven fifteen?”

Jameson sighs. “I’ll be there, Sebastian. Quit nagging.”

“Wearing a singlet?”

A soft chuckle. “No, I won’t be wearing a singlet.”

“But they’re the required uniform.”

“How about I don’t.”

I think about this for a second, the mental image of Jameson wearing nothing but a basic black leotard too much for me to resist. All that exposed, smooth, creamy skin. “Rule number eight: we both have to be properly attired if we’re doing this. Do the best you can to find something black.” And tight. And fitted.

A loud, drawn-out sigh. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Great.” She pushes away, a smile threatening to crack the thin line of her lips.

“All right then, we agree. Oh, and James?”

“Yes, Oswald?” This time she does give me a smirk, a plastered on, shit-eating grin at the use of her nickname for me—one I plan to wipe off with my next pronouncement, raking her body up and down with my dark, hooded eyes.

“We don’t wear anything under our singlets.”

Her worried brows shoot up. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

I leave her there, standing on the porch with her mouth hanging open. Turning, I strut to my truck, whistling the entire way.





Jameson




Nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for the sight of Sebastian Osborne in his wrestling singlet—not the google search images, not the marketing shots from the university’s athletic department, not even the vivid visuals fueled by my overactive imagination.

Last week’s drama with Sydney evaporates, replaced by the sight of him in that sleek, body-hugging spandex—it is nothing short of a miracle.

God’s gift to women.

A dreadful poly one-piece constructed solely to plague my estrogen levels.

It shows off. Absolutely. Everything.

Black with the school’s mascot in the center, the low cut straps over his shoulders hug his muscular pecs, dipping down to showcase his lower body. His abdominals. His sternum. From his hard nipples to the valley of his well-developed chest…

His everything. I can see every gloriously well-defined detail.

Ugh.

I watch him stretching on the balls of his feet before he sees me emerging from the locker room of the wrestlers’ designated practice gym. I examine the padded center of the room, feigning interest in the gleaming hardwood floor and the freshly painted school logo painted on the concrete cinderblock walls.

Oz stands, hands on his lean hips, grin spreading across his face when he catches sight of me walking out of the locker room dressed only in a plain black ballet leotard—one I raced around town like a madwoman to hunt down, realizing too late there are zero dance stores in this college town. The only place selling anything remotely close to a leo is Target, and theirs?

Theirs are for children.

So yeah. I’m wearing a kid’s extra large, which doesn’t exactly fit. In fact, it doesn’t fit at all.

Black, sleeveless, and extremely tight, I try to ignore it and force myself across the cold wooden floor, pulling at the fabric riding up my butt crack. All because Oz is an * who insisted I wear one.

A single light shines above an azure mat in the center of the gym floor, a hanging light bulb, just like you’d see in the movies.

Darkness shrouds the recesses of the room.

I point to the light above. “Uh, did you plan this? It’s way creepy.”

He smirks. “I may or may not know the custodial staff, and now I owe them a favor.” He looks me up and down. “You look hot by the way.”

Insecurely, I pull at the straps barely coving my breasts. Because I. Am. An. Idiot. “Hot as in ‘cheap stripper’?”

“No. Hot as in ‘cheap ballerina stripper’. Where did you get that thing, anyway?”

“Target, because I didn’t have time to order one from one of those online dance stores and it was the only place that had them.”

His beautifully sculpted lips slide into a knowing curve. “Don’t you have Prime? That would have only taken two days to ship.”

I want to face palm myself because he has a very valid point. Instead I ignore the question completely. “I’m freezing here; can we get this over with? I feel like I’m about to be put under a microscope.”

Advancing farther into the room across the shiny, polished hardwood floor. Conscious of my bare, colorless legs. My pale, freckled arms. My pink painted toes that could use a fresh coat of polish.

Hyperaware of Sebastian watching me pad barefoot across the room, I try not to stare at his masculine glory. His taut broad body. His lean hips. His massive thighs. His sinewy, rippling biceps. His bulging…

Oh god.

I can’t look.

But I have to look.

My depraved eyes travel wantonly from his defined collarbone down to his hard-as-rock pecs and flat, toned abs, every inch of his long, thick dick visible under his thin, tight singlet.