The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(63)

“If you’re going to date me, I insist on rule number ten: No sex until the fifth date.” She bites down on her lower lip, carefully extracting herself from under me and scooting toward the headboard, where she props herself up and begins the process of buckling her heels. “Or maybe the third or fourth, depending on how it goes.”

No sex until date number five! Is she f*cking insane?

“Oz? Do we have a deal?”

My eyes catalog every single one of the delectable curves I won’t see naked for at least five dates. Three if it goes well. Three, three, focus on three. Focus on her crotch, her flat stomach, her boobs, her chagrined mouth— “Oz?”

I like her. I can do this. We’ll just crank out the dates, one after the other, rapid fire.

I nod again, lips arching into a wicked grin. “Yes, yes. Excellent.”

She beams at me and I feel a million feet tall walking her to her car. I plant a chaste kiss on the top of her head to leave her wanting more.

I stand, watching her glowing taillights travel down the empty street, stop at the light, and disappear from sight once she turns left.

“Brace yourself Jim; I’m going to date the shit out of you.”





Jameson




“God. This ugly-ass thing is actually really cute on you,” Oz says, reaching to adjust the blue batting helmet resting on my head. Giving it a little tap, he leans in and—

“You did not just kiss the tip of my nose.”

“It’s an adorably perky little nose.” He steps back, letting his eyes scan the rest of my body. “Almost as perky as your boobs.”

I whack him in the gut harder than I intend to. My hand stings like a mothertrucker when I pull back, prickly like needles are stabbing from within, and I slap it over my mouth to quiet my dismay. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. I mean—I meant to tap you, not smack you.”

“If that was your apology, it sucked.”

“My hand hurts,” I whimper, cradling it like a baby.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

I do. I do want him to kiss it and make it better, so I step toward him, palm extended. “Be gentle.”

“Here, let me see it.” He drops his helmet to the pavement, moving toward me with a purposeful stride, taking my hand in his. “Poor baby.”

Oz makes a grand show of examining my hand, my fingers, then soothes his palm up my goose bump-covered arm, back down again. When he lowers his head and drags his nose along the delicate skin of my inner wrist, my eyelids flutter closed.

When his lips find my pulse, I moan.

“Poor.” Kiss. “Poor.” Kiss. “Baby.” One more kiss and he lifts his head. Winks. “Be more careful next time. When I have you, I want you in one piece.”

“It was my special brand of flirting.” No doubt my expression is wobbly. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

A slow smile creeps across his face and he dips, reaching for my arm. Drags me closer by the wrist he’s just branded with his lips. Drags my flattened palm over his stomach and over his hard abdomen.

“Feel these abs?”

“Yes.”

“Rock. Solid.” He moves that palm over the flat plane of his six-pack, the muscles constricting under my feather-light touch. His arm slides around my waist as he moves my hand up over his firm pecs. Up over his right shoulder. Forces me to step even closer. “You can’t hurt me, James.”

You can’t hurt me.

Flirtatious words with a bewildering wallop of fiction.

Those four words cause me to look up into his dark, expressive eyes. His mouth has a smile tugging on it but…those sullen eyes? Those eyes are saying something else completely: you can hurt me.

All this time I was worried about myself and my own heart, never once stopping to consider that I could hurt him. How selfish.

Shamefaced, my head drops for a split second, considering his bald-faced lie. He’s lying. This behemoth, mountain of a guy, gazing down at me with jokes and smiles and laughter, is lying.

“You really do like me,” I say breathily, the words full of wonder.

“You like me,” he breathes back.

“But you like me, like me,” I challenge like a ten-year-old on the playground. “Do you have a crush on…my cardigans, Sebastian?”

I get an eye roll for that one. “Get over yourself, Clark.”

Oz tilts his head to study me, one hand rising between our two bodies to cup my chin. Leans in. Lands his mouth squarely on mine and presses gently as his other large palm squeezes my butt cheek. “Pick up the bat, slacker.”

“But it’s heavy,” I complain when he hands me the wooden Louisville Slugger. “My arms are like noodles.”

“Stop stalling, Clark. Get to it.” He gives my ass another squeeze then a light tap before nudging me toward a yellow line drawn on the pavement where I should take my mark.

I giggle like a schoolgirl and take the wooden baseball bat from his outstretched hand.

“Check your helmet,” he pesters. “Make sure it’s on straight. I don’t need you getting a concussion.”

I straighten the helmet, my long hair swept to one side. “Better. Okay, I’m ready, Coach.”