The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(64)

Oz nods and crosses his arms, satisfied I’ve properly cross-checked my equipment, then begins rapidly doling out instructions.

Spread your legs. Bend at the knee. Elbows out. Eyes on the ball.

Swing at everything.

“Got it?”

“Got it.”

The white ball flies out of the machine, whizzing past me at warp-like speed. It hits the canvas backdrop with a hollow thump, drops to the ground, and rolls a few feet before stopping at the chain-link fence.

Too late, I swing.

“Damn. Don’t got it,” I joke.

Oz laughs, walking a few feet to the green mechanical box hanging on the fence, and opens the lid. Turns a few dials, snaps the lid closed. “That might have been a little too fast for a beginner. I adjusted the speed.”

“I hope it’s slower than the rate at which girls fall into bed with Zeke Daniels,” I drawl, taking the proper stance while anticipating the next pitch. “Because if that’s the case, I’m screwed.”

“You’re funny.”

“Why thank you.” I lift the bat, bend my elbows, and stick my butt out, glancing at the nude wedges strapped to my feet. At the hot pink toenails playing peekaboo. At my fitted jeans and aqua blue silk top.

The delicate turquoise necklace sways between my breasts when I glance over at Oz. “You could have warned me you were bringing me here so I wouldn’t wear heels; it would’ve been the polite thing for a gentleman to do.”

He leans against the chain-link fence. “I’ve always preferred the element of surprise.”

“But I wouldn’t have worn this.”

One thick eyebrow crooks over eyes fastened on my denim-clad rump. “Exactly.”

The gorgeous ass grins at me and I roll my eyes. “Let’s get this show on the road and put an end to my misery.”

Ball after ball shoots out of the machine; I swing and swing and swing and miss every ball flying past me with a whoosh at alarmingly rapid speeds.

Frustrated by my incredible suckage, I stomp a foot. “Dammit, Sebastian! Are you going to help me or not?”

The bastard grins. “Only if you insist.”

Eye roll. “I insist.”

Pushing himself away from the fence, he saunters over, slower than molasses, approaching from behind. Rests both hands on my hips. Slides them slowly up my ribcage, down my arms, and grips the base of the bat over my hands.

His hard muscular body imprints on my backside; I bite down on my bottom lip when that splendid chest encounters my shoulder blades, his pelvis creating an erotic friction against my derriere. I loll my head slowly to the side as his nose brushes the hair alongside my neck, nudging it aside.

Those lips speak, inadvertently igniting infinite sparks inside my body, his suggestive words a sexy, sensory caress.

“Grip it like this, not too firm, not to soft.” He repositions my hands. “Open those beautiful legs for me a little wider, James. Yeah, that’s it.” His knee taps the inside of my leg, spreading them wider on the asphalt. “Straddle the plate.” Those fingertips momentarily leave the bat to dig into my hips and cradle me in closer.

I can feel his cock straining against my ass crack and fight back a moan. “There is no plate.” It’s a batting cage, not a ballpark.

“Close your eyes and visualize it then. Imagine yourself straddling it.”

My eyes flutter closed, a ballpark the furthest thing from filthy mind. Graphic images fuel my imagination, my dirty, dirty imagination: Sebastian on his back, covered in sex sweat. His bare chest, lean hips, and a light dusting of hair trailing from his belly button straight down to the delicious V…dipping, dipping down and disappearing into a tangle of white sheets. Rising above him on a big bed, my hair spills in a cascade over my naked—

“Are you seeing it?” His voice cuts into my fantasy.

“Yes. I’m seeing it…” The throbbing between my legs is no figment of my imagination. The wet underwear. The want. The, “Mmm.”

Oz releases his grip on the bat so he can drag those massive paws along the front of my denim jeans. I almost can’t stand the tension of his middle and forefinger dragging up and down that sensitive vale of my bikini line, rubbing. Coaxing. So close to my crotch the telltale sign of an orgasm threatens to have me moaning out embarrassingly loudly.

The resistance from his fingers on the denim is like flint and fire.

Intoxicating.

He strokes my lower abdomen.

Groans into my shoulder.

Drags that rock-hard dick across my ass.

We both groan when his fingers drag themselves up my ribcage and reposition themselves around the barrel of the bat.

“Coming here was such a f*cking terrible idea,” he growls.

“No crap.” Don’t drop the bat James, don’t drop the bat. “This is the worst place ever.”

I clutch it tight.

“Rule number eleven: any and all future dates will now have a no-contact clause implemented.”

“That sounds like a rule within a rule.” I pant, mentally attempting to steady my palpitating heart. “Maybe we should head back. Clearly you can’t be trusted to behave.”

“Me? You’re the one gyrating your tight little ass into my—”

“Am I?” I’m trying to focus on his words, I really, really am…and I really am gyrating my ass into his junk…but I swear, I can’t help myself. My body suddenly has a mind of its own.