The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(9)

Her lip twitches. “You’re welcome.”

I give her another onceover, taking her in from head to toe, seeing her differently than I did ten minutes ago. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone from straitlaced and unadventurous to sassy and weirdly erotic.

Damn shame she’s not giving it up.

Finally, I turn, presenting her with my back before striding away, one heavy footfall after the other, toward my friends. I get halfway across the library when her bubbly little voice rings out, a soft beckoning.

“Hey Oz?”

I stop.

Instead of facing her, I turn my head only a fraction, presenting her with just my profile. “What.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds—so quiet my morbid curiosity forces me to turn. Jameson stands in the soft lamp light in the dim corner, her eyes sparkling with wit and humor.

Captivated, my brows raise impatiently. “Well?”

“A little friendly advice?” Her pouty lips part and I’m drawn to them as they mutter, “Never judge a girl by her cardigan,” just loud enough for me to hear.

That gives me pause. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I don’t need it.”





Two hours and twenty minutes later, that quietly uttered advice is all I can think about: never judge a girl by her cardigan.

Never judge a girl by her cardigan.

What the hell does that even mean?

Irritated, I punch my pillow, wadding it up under my head and staring at the ceiling, wide awake, trying to shove the visual of a certain set of pearls out of my mind and focus on something else—like Rachel Ididntcatchherlastname’s perky tits, that little dicktease. Or Carmen Whatsherface’s tight little ass. Or that kinky brunette I let blow me in the library before…

I spit into the center of my palm before it disappears down into my mesh gym shorts. For better access, I push the waistband down my hips, past my raging hard-on. Gripping the base of my rigid shaft, I give it a few pulls to take the edge off before committing to the task, pumping it in a steady rhythm until my breathing becomes harsh.

My brow furrows in concentration and the tip of my tongue licks my bottom lip, my teeth biting down with every stroke. Shit it feels so f*cking great, even though it’s my own damn hand.

Unfortunately.

It takes me a few minutes to get off, and with a few more jerks I blow my load, groaning when my palm is filled with warm, sticky cum.

And like every romantic cliché in the existence of time, it’s not the gorgeous, flawless face of a hot blonde I’m whacking off to, but the fresh face of Jameson Clark. Her immaculate hair. Her clear eyes. Those black glasses perched on her nose.

The universe is a bitchy, relentless mistress indeed.

Rising from bed, I snap the elastic waistband of my shorts around my lean hips, run a hand over my six-pack, and pad barefoot to the communal bathroom I share with three other guys to rinse my hands—and my cock.





Jameson



My heart is still beating a mile a minute when I climb into bed, flick the light off, and flop down on my back to stare at the ceiling.

Oz.

Oz the *.

Cocksure. Ridiculous. Aggravating.

Lewd.

Sexy.

Oh god he was sexy. The things his tongue did to my mouth in the short amount of time we were kissing are still taking my breath away, if my labored breathing is any indication.

Hair fanned out across my pillow, my hand slowly traces the exposed skin of my hipbone. My boxers are threadbare and folded down at the waistband, my fingers brushing…brushing along the elastic seam.

Closing my eyes, I let them trail inside my shorts, teasing myself with a light caress. Back and forth…closer and closer to the apex of my thighs until my legs, of their own accord, spread just a bit wider.

Oz…

Huge.

Firm.

Tattooed.

Tall Oz loomed over my table like some kind of modern day gladiator, broad and imposing.

Bored.

His penetrating eyes had looked down at me warily, if not fully jaded…but that can’t be right; guys like him have the world by the ass and don’t appreciate it. And yet...as he stood there, mocking me, there was no mistaking the lack of enthusiasm for his quest.

Until I’d lain my mouth on his.

I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering his lips. Full, soft, and gentle—if one ignored the sardonic smirk. His tongue— Oh god.

Not my type, not my type, not my type, I chant.

Not my type at all.

Yet here I am, moaning in the dark, my fingers finally finding that one wet, aching sweet spot I’ve neglected far too long. Stroking myself, my eyelids flutter shut and I drown in the vivid image of Oz Osborne. Imposing. Potent.

Serious.

There’s more behind that boastful smirk than he’s presenting to people for show, of that I’m sure.

Not someone I’ve ever seen around campus, he came out of nowhere tonight with his hulky body and arrogant countenance—like he owned the place. What kind of guy demands control of a library for heaven’s sake? God, I can’t stand guys like that, conceited and full of themselves.

And yet…

The fingers from my free hand find my mouth in the dark, resting on my lips while I stroke myself with the other. Chaffed from the scruff on his face, my mouth feels branded, despite the mercenary intent of our kiss.