The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(71)

“I want to—wait.” Am I hearing her correctly? “What?”

A smirk. “You heard me.”

“Yeah, I heard you. I’m just not sure I heard you.”

Her nimble fingertips travel down her flat stomach, teasing the waistband of her plaid skirt. Finger the delicate gold buckle fastening it. Pull the leather strap through the loop with a gentle tug.

“Listen close: I’m telling you yes.”

Spellbound, I watch when she stands. The wool skirt parts, revealing only a pair of lavender lace panties. The panties I’ve fantasized about over and over again the past few days. The panties that have literally haunted my dreams. Pale purple, they hug her slender hips but conceal nothing. Absolutely. Nothing.

Naught but a scrap of lace constructed solely to plague my testosterone levels. They’re indecent. Racy.

Magnificent.

A sexually repressed librarian fantasy come true.

I release the desk chair and forcibly raise my eyes to her face, advancing on her. “Shit, seriously?”

“Yesss,” she whines through clenched teeth when my grasping hands close in on her tiny waist then drift south along her backside. Down her spine. Down her flawless skin. Down to that taut ass. My large palms slide into her lace panties, cup her butt cheeks, and…

Squeeze.

“How far do you wanna go?” She moans when I give her ass a smack, rubbing the sting away in slow circles.

“All the way.” I bury my head at the base of her throat, groaning, grinding my erection against her stomach. “Tell me what you what James; tell me and I’ll do it.”

“I want to spend the night. This isn’t a booty call.” She rattles off demands. “This isn’t a one-night stand. I want respect. You do not get to kick me out afterward, or in the morning. I want breakfast and I want you in the kitchen cooking it for me.”

The pads of my palms continue stroking her brilliant backside, pulling her in flush. “How do waffles sound?”

“Waffles sound delicious.” She gasps and my dick weeps in celebration. “But I want your shirt off.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Reaching for the hem of my navy blue wrestling tee shirt, I pull it up and over my torso and toss it to the hardwood floor. It lands in a heap near her shoes.

“What else do you want gone?”

“Everything.” Jameson leans forward, licks the smooth skin of my collarbone, and blows, humming her approval. “But we’ll start with your track pants.”

She lays her hands on me tenderly, feather-light fingers leaving a pleasure trail as they trace the corded muscles of my biceps. Forearms. Down my rock-hard abs, her fingertip drawing a leisurely circle around my belly button until it reaches the elastic band riding low on my hips.

Together we untie the corded knot at my waistband. Slide my pants down until I’m kicking, tripping over myself to get them off. Standing in just my tented gray boxer briefs.

Jameson gives me a small shove toward the foot of the bed, instructing me to, “Sit.”

Like an excited, obedient puppy, I comply, practically panting.

Bracing herself over me, Jameson leans in, her silky brown hair skimming my bare chest. Her mouth brushes the corner of my lips. “My turn.”

She goes for the middle button on her cardigan.

“Be gentle with me, James. I haven’t had sex with anyone since before Utah. I’ve done so much jerking off my junk is chafed—legit chafed.”

How’s that for brutally honest?

Jameson leans in, kissing the side of my mouth and crooning in my ear. “You want me to make sweet, sweet love to you, baby? Not give it to you hard?”

Holy shit, give me the dirty talk.

“Yeah—that first one sounds about right. Then I want you to cuddle me until it’s time for breakfast.”

“Thinking ’bout that sex, but also ’bout them waffles,” comes her coo.

We both laugh; shit she’s funny. And smart. And beautiful. And the sound of my name on her lips feels better than any victory.

Sexier than any moan.





Jameson



I’m taking what I want.

I’m taking my time.

I’m taking off my skirt.

Standing in front of the bed now, the discarded plaid skirt pooled in a puddle at my feet, I step out of it and set to work on my sweater.

There’s no shame in my game: if a guy can get laid whenever the hell he wants, with whoever the hell he wants, so can I.

I want what I want, and I’m done telling Sebastian no.

Done waiting.

I want the tension gone and I want to get…

Laid.

I want him—every last part of him: the foul mouth, the stupidly hectic schedule, the needy groupies, the obnoxious roommates. The good, bad, and ugly. He’s gained my trust and I’m ready to take the next step.

I trust him.

I trust Sebastian Osborne.

On my mind constantly, I cannot stop thinking about him. Day and night. Night and day. Consuming me like a fever.

Like a drug.





Sebastian




My eyes go to her fingers. The creamy skin of her stomach. Her soft lower abs. The thighs I just had my hands on.

“Take a guess: what am I wearing under this sweater?” Jameson whispers in my direction, plucking another navy button free. A mere three buttons hold the sweater closed.