The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(46)

Lord bless the designer of that horrible outfit.

My eyes widen when they settle on the length of him, glaringly obvious in the spandex fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination because he is wearing nothing underneath.

Not even a jock strap.

I swallow.

Take a few more cautious steps.

Hesitate.

“Scared?” his voice inquires, not really in a taunt. I’m surprised when he sounds…sincere. Caring. “Excited?”

“It’s hard to get excited when you don’t know what to expect.” I cross my arms over the breasts I always considered porcelain; they haven’t seen the sun in months and now they just feel…white. White, white, white.

“So you are scared.”

I give a single nod. “A little.”

“Don’t be. I’m going to take real good care of you.” He moves under the single dim light. “You might even like it.”

I gulp down my nerves. “Not likely.”

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”

“You’ve been pissing me off lately.” I give a little indignant huff. “You’re lucky I showed up.”

“We had a deal.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

His hooded gaze drifts up and down my person so excruciatingly unrushed that goose bumps develop all over my skin, over my entire body.

I shiver.

“Uncross your arms, Jim.” He gives his hands a clap. “Let’s get this party started.”

I can’t help it—I let a nervous giggle bubble out of me, drop my arms to my sides, and stand there awkwardly, fidgeting. “When you call it a party it doesn’t sound so horrible.”

His enormous palms rub together gleefully. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but pinning you down all day. Having you under me.” He takes one deliberate step toward me at a time. “Not studying.” Step. “Not practice.” Step. “Not work.”

He stops, the barest inch of space separating us.

Barely.

“And here you are. Jameson Clark, in my gym.” The heat radiating between us is combustible. “So. What are we going to do about this, Jim. Any suggestions?”

Two black leotards. Two sleek figures.

One hard, one soft.

Raising my eyes to meet his, I manage to shake my head back and forth, mouth dry.

“Nothing? Really James? No suggestions, not even one? Good thing I have a few for the both of us.”

He makes the simple statement sound dirty and pervy and hot.

My estrogen levels skyrocket, ovaries tingling on vibrate.

Sebastian’s warm hand grips my arm, sliding gradually up toward my elbow. I shiver while my lady bits do…other inappropriate things.

“Okay Jimbo.” His voice is low. Erotic. “This is what we’re going to do: I’m going to show you how to get in position, then I’m going to flip you on your back. Okay?”

I stare at his pecs.

“Jim, nod if you understand.”

I bob my head up and down.

He smiles down at me, all testosterone and sex appeal, cupping my chin in his huge hand. “God you’re f*cking cute.”

Cute? Ugh.

“Bend your knees like this and mimic my stance.” He releases me and steps back, squatting and separating his legs slightly, knees bent and back arched. “The point is to center your gravity.”

I mimic his stance. “Like this?”

“Just like that Jameson.” His voice is a gentle stroke, soft and sexy and low, and I blush at the sound of it, my ovaries giving another sigh. “Now. Spread your legs—yeah, spread them like that—and step with your lead foot, like this. We call this the power leg.”

With my quivering right foot, I step forward.

“Now raise your hands to a guardian stance.” He nods his approval when I do it correctly, eyes scanning my body. “I’m going to lower my head and aim at your hip, okay? Because I’m bigger, I’ll be able to maneuver you into the position I need you to be in so I can lift you.”

I’m just barely able to nod my consent. My breath is labored and I can scarcely stand the thought of him touching me, let alone manhandling me, without getting hot and aching all over.

Hot and aching and wet. I’ll have to suffer through it…

He regards me, leisurely and cool, taking his sweet, sweet, tortured time studying me. Gauging. Calculating. Painfully slowly.

Under his veiled gaze, my nipples harden and his nostrils flare when those same heated eyes graze my breasts, land and stay there.

“No pearls today?” he asks.

“No pearls,” I whisper.

“Damn shame,” he whispers back.

He lowers his stance again, legs bent at a low angle, on the balls of his feet to find his center of gravity. Advances toward me with his palms outstretched, hands reaching low. Reaching until those large mitts skim the inner thigh of each leg.

My breath hitches when his thumbs stroke that clean-shaven valley between my legs before slipping his hands over my hips to cup my butt cheeks.

“That is not a wrestling technique.” I gasp when he gets a little too close to my crack for comfort, glides his hands up my back and presses with light strokes.

“It should be,” he mutters. “This is more exciting than the first time I had you under me, probably because this time I can see your boobs—they’re fantastic.”