The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(70)

Zeke’s and Dylan’s beeramid.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Jameson turns gradually toward me, making a show of untying the belt of her jacket, unbuttoning the toggles, pulling it open and shrugging it off. Her shoulders and slim figure are dressed in a baby blue cardigan with shiny navy buttons. It’s buttoned to her neck, but it’s thin, and holy shit—I don’t think she’s wearing anything under it. The pearl necklace circles her neck like a collar.

Nipples. Hard.

Stiff.

My eyes hover over her boobs.

Shit, is she wearing a bra? Why the hell wouldn’t she be? Why is she wearing a plaid skirt? Surely she was just at home hanging with her roommates in yoga pants? Causal shit girls wear?

I gape like an adolescent schoolboy at her incredible rack, at the hard nipples poking through the soft fabric of her sweater, almost one hundred percent positive she’s naked beneath it.

I shake my head again in denial—there is no way.

Jameson would never go braless in public.

Would she?

Stop looking at her tits, dude. Get a f*cking grip.

Jameson makes a little humming sound as she drapes her coat over the arm of our recliner, a demure smile parting her lips. Coolly rests her hip against the back of the chair, legs crossing at the ankles. Folds her hands over her lap.

“So. Now what?”

My eyes fly back to her chest. “Uh.”

I can think of eight hundred things to answer that and they all include nudity, nakedness, and bare flesh.

She gives another pleasant little hum. “I’m thinking we should go to your bedroom?” She’s the epitome of innocence and class, minus the bra. “You know, for privacy, in case your roommates come home.”

If Jameson wants to go to my room, on purpose, wearing nothing but that plaid skirt and cardigan, she’ll get no objections from me.

I’ve had girls at my place before, a steady stream of one-night stands and hookups. Virtual strangers in my bed for the night, good for nothing but a quick screw and a swat on the ass, then straight out the door the way they came. Not one of them has lasted through the night; not one of them has made it to morning. Regardless, I’m not about to pass up the opportunity to find out what’s under that sweater.

I’m not a complete f*cking moron.

I grab Jameson’s hand, lacing our fingers. Guide her down the long hall, switching lights off in the process. Cringe when I open the door to my room. “Shit, sorry it’s such a mess. I didn’t make the bed. Didn’t think I’d be having company.”

I release her hand and rush the room, hastily yanking the covers up on my bed. Throw the pillows back into place near the headboard. Toss a dirty tee shirt into the open closet.

“Hold up a minute.”

“Sebastian, it’s okay. Really.” Jameson eases herself onto the bed, crossing her legs, and kicks her ballet flats to the floor. Pushes them out of the way, dangling her feet off the edge, her pretty bright pink toenails polished and shiny.

My eyes follow the movement of her fingers as they toy with the hem of her plaid skirt. Her plaid. Fucking. Skirt. She parts the fold, giving me a rare glimpse of creamy upper thigh, the elusive crevasse between her legs, the shadow of underwear.

Blood rushes to the brain inside my pants, my hands shooting to my hair. I pace to the far side of my bedroom as the sight of her skirt alone does shit to my cock that—f*cking A.

It twitches.

If she’s doing all this sexy shit on purpose—trying to make me horny and out of my mind—it’s working.

The electricity from our chemistry has my hair standing on end. I find my voice, testing it out. “Are you doing that on purpose? Because you’re testing my patience.”

Her fingers find the bottom button of her cardigan and tug then flip the bottom hem of her skirt, affording me another peek. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Those glossy lips tip into an angelic smile. Teeth bite down on that tempting bottom lip.

“Fine. All right.” I grip the nearby desk chair, white knuckling it when she leans back on the bed and uncrosses her legs. Sits there with her knees spread apart, toying, toying with that bottom button of her top.

Toying with me.

“Although…” Jameson sighs. “It did occur to me earlier that—” She pauses, tips her head, and studies me, blue eyes alive and sizzling. “These feelings aren’t going away, are they? In fact,” she demurs. “They’re getting worse.”

I’m confused. What feelings is she talking about? Our friendship? Our dating?

“So I’m here to do something about it. Five dates is a long time, and we already have something most couples don’t. We’re friends.” The bottom button gets pushed through its hole, her expression impassive even as it’s released. Then another…and another, until I can see the flat plane of bare stomach and cute innie belly button. “And don’t you think we both deserve it after being so patient?”

It.

It?

The death grip on my chair gets harder. Is she—

Holy f*ck, is she about to strip?

“Jesus Jameson.” Eager (to say the least), my leg involuntarily starts to twitch. “Are you seducing me?”

A low mmm. “I like you, Sebastian,” comes her husky whisper. “I like your brains and your body, and I’m tired of saying no. Tired of rules. Tired of waiting for date number five.”