How to Date a Douchebag:The Studying Hours(9)

By: Sara Ney

“Instead of bitching you should be thanking me for the opportunity.”

A huff. “That’s right—you’re paying me because you are the epitome of morality and trustworthiness. It practically oozes out of your pores.”

“Jesus lady. I said I was going to give you half and I will.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She huffs again but stands, rises to her full height, and shocks me again. A petite little thing, she barely reaches my clavicle, and I’m tempted to see if I could rest my chin on her head.

“If you don’t trust me and I’m pissing you off, why would you agree to this stupid stunt?”

This gives her pause and she seems to consider my question. “Curiosity. Besides, isn’t it okay to make poor choices every once in a while?”

I glance down between our bodies, noting the full breasts straining against the buttons of her black cardigan, and grin. Sorry, can’t help it; Sexy Librarian’s got a great rack beneath her proper sweater, with its row of proper buttons, and now they’re pressing improperly against my chest in the most improper way.

“What did you say your name was?” My question comes out huskier than intended.

Her pouty mouth slips into another satisfied smirk. “Sexy Librarian.”

“No, seriously.”

She pauses, inhaling a breath of air before exhaling it.

“Fine. If you must know, my name is James. James Clark.”

I know it’s fucking rude—and probably really obnoxious—but I let my eyes bug out of my head and my mouth fall open. “Your name is James? Like as in James, James?”

Patiently, she waits me out.

I just stare at her, reconciling the masculine name with the feminine figure in front of me. Then, I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Don’t guys get confused when you’re fucking them? Doesn’t your dude name get confusing for them?”

James’s blue eyes flare, but she otherwise doesn’t react. She’s obviously used to this response to her name.

“James is short for Jameson.” The implied ‘asshole’ tacked to the end of her sentence lingers in the air, squeezed between our bodies.

My dark eyebrow shoots sardonically into my hairline and my lips twist into a smirk. “What—the two extra letters on the end made it so long you had to shorten it?”

“Something like that.” Bemused, she bites down on her lower lip. “Are you going to kiss me or what? I have a thirty-page paper to finish by midnight, and I’m only on page twenty-two.”

“You have to kiss me.”

“Oh sheesh.” A loud sigh and she fiddles nervously with the top button of her cardigan. My eyes settle on the sliver of creamy skin there before she says, “Lucky me, this just gets better and better, doesn’t it? All right then Oz, hold still. You ready?”

So fucking ready.

“I’m ready Jim.” I chuckle. “Lay one on me.”

As she presses her body closer, I catch a whiff of what smells like baby powder and something floral. I inhale, staring down at her chest. I mean, since her boobs are squished against me, I might as well take advantage—and shockingly, she lets me.

Rises to her toes. Flutters her lashes.

Purses her pouty lips.

I expect a chaste kiss to settle on my cheek, just a brush of her lips, or a quick peck on my jawline.

I’ve never been so wrong in my entire fucking life.

And truthfully, I’ve never been this turned on either. Trying to get James to kiss me has been fun, an actual, honest to God, chase—one I’ve enjoyed every second of.

So I watch her lips and revel in the feel of her—

Stop it fucker.


Jameson’s warm hands cup my face, cradling my jaw. Her thumbs begin a slow, steady stroke along my cheeks, gliding back and forth until my neck tilts involuntarily, eyelids getting heavy as I watch her in wonder. I’m truly enthralled as this weird, unassuming stranger searches my eyes.

Instinctually, my lips seek the contact of her palm, wanting to place a kiss there. As if sensing my intention, her head gives a shake. “Don’t.”

A whisper.

A sigh.

Her buttons dig deeper still into my chest when she arches higher on her tiptoes to rest her lips against the outside corner of my mouth.