The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(47)

Before I can protest, his large hands are under my thighs, grappling my ass.

My feet are hoisted effortlessly off the ground.

Lifted.

Flipping.

Back flat against the cool plastic, I’m unexpectedly sprawled out on the mat, staring at the ceiling, my loose hair fanned out around me.

My breath hitches when Oz shifts the arm he has hooked under my left leg, the calloused pads of his coarse hands gently gliding up the pale skin of my calf. He strokes it up and down until my breath comes hard.

“There, there,” he soothes. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“You make it look so easy.”

“That’s because I’m good at it,” he teases, hovering above me, arms cradling my head in his large palms, caressing my hair. “And because you’re tiny.”

“I only feel tiny because you’re so big.”

Everywhere.

His right eyebrow rises, mouth quirking into a smirk. “True. I am big.”

Everywhere.

Those coarse fingers float deliberately over my leg, lingering at the baby fine skin near my crotch, palm flat, his thumb stroking my bare bikini line. My intake of breath is sharp; Sebastian’s thumb hooks the fabric at the seam of my leotard, drawing it away from my skin, flirting dangerously close to my…to where I want it most.

Oh lord.

His touch is the barest tremor from a sigh and I feel…so good I could orgasm from it if I let myself.

I feel the heat rising up my chest, resisting the urge to fan the blush on my cheeks. I’ve never found it this hard to breathe, have I? Never found it this hard not to wiggle my hips. It takes all my willpower not to squirm beneath him. Rub. Wiggle.

I bite down a moan.

He’s not my type, he’s not my type, he’s not my type.

“Was it really necessary for me to wear this stupid leotard?” He needs to take his hand out of it before I embarrass myself.

“No,” he purrs. “Of course not, but I also didn’t think it was fair for me to be the only one showing off the merchandise.”

“And I fell for it.”

“Hook, line, sinker. There’s a sucker born every minute,” his lips say while his fingers finally travel to stroke my hipbones.

“Are you calling me na?ve?”

“No, but I’m hoping you’re a sucker—because I am.”

“Well that was a tad pervy.”

The air around us is as thick as the cords of his neck, as the rigid length of him that’s pressed against my inner thigh, straining inside the spandex singlet.

“One.” He hums out the count, pounding the mat with the flat of his palm. “Two.” His head dips. “Three. To the victor go the spoils.”

Head bent, his tongue does a leisurely, wet glide between the valley of my plumped breasts; from the scooped neckline of my spandex, he licks all the way up to my clavicle. Slow. Sexy. Nips my collarbone and sucks.

Wet. Hot.

Wet.

Oh sweet baby Jesus holy mother of—

“Stop.” I gasp when he licks my neck. “Sebastian, stop.” I gasp again. God, it feels too, too good. “Rule number nine: don’t do it if you don’t mean it.”

“Oh, I f*cking mean it,” he growls into my neck, his tongue declaring warfare on every cell in my body. Behind my ear. Across my collarbone. My aching, desperate body.

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t think I can do this. Not with you. I’m sorry; as much as I…”

As much as I want him, want his body and want the feel of him on top of me—I can’t do it. I just can’t do what he’s done with countless other women that came before me unless I’ve thought it through. Spontaneous hookups aren’t my thing anymore.

He pulls back to look at me, face an unreadable mask. “Don’t apologize. I get it. I’ll stop.”

I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I let it go, air expelling from my lungs in a disappointed puff. Stupid, stupid James, thinking maybe he’d say something different. Thinking maybe he’d try to change my mind.

Thinking maybe…

Nope.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he gazes down at me, taking my measure. Taking me in. Lowers his head again and brushes the corner of my lips with his mouth. One side then the other, way too lovingly for my heart not to sob out its regret. Plants a soft kiss on my temple. Cheek. The corner of my eyes, causing them to flutter closed of their own accord. Fluttering, fluttering closed with a sigh.

That. That right there—my favorite spot to be kissed: the tender skin just beneath my lower lashes.

“You might be saying you can’t,” he hums near my ear. “But you like that, don’t you, Jim?”

I muster a brutally honest and breathy, “Ugh, yes.”

God yes.

“Should I do it again?” Purr.

Yes please, says my nod.

He does. Rains tiny kisses onto that delicate skin. Soft kisses. Caring. One at a time, the pitter patter of my beating heart keeping time with the rhythm of his gorgeous lips.

Warm full lips cover my mouth gently, and for the barest hint of a second, my eyes open, wanting to glimpse this tender moment between us. Remember it.

Sebastian’s eyes are closed. Cheekbones high. Lips—oh those lips—resting upon mine, waiting. Seeking. Asking.