Home > How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours (HTDAD #1)(8)

How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours (HTDAD #1)(8)
Author: Sara Ney

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 fucking great, even though it’s my own damn hand.


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.






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 the asshole.

Cocksure. Ridiculous. Aggravating.



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.





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


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.


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.


I roll over and face the wall, groaning at the memory of his powerful arms; I’m a sucker for tattoos, and he had an armful beneath the sleeves of that worn navy blue tee shirt. His strong, dense arms. Solid chest. Toned back.

He’s not my type. I have to keep reminding myself of that as I stroke between my legs, seeking that release.

He’s not my type. He’s…

A long, blissful sigh on a cold spring night. An incredible moment I won’t soon forget. A vain, stubborn ass with deplorable taste in company.

He’s everything I don’t want.

And yet…

Somehow he is.






“Dude, isn’t that the chick from the library?” Zeke nudges me with a meaty elbow, though I can barely hear him over the throng and the music. I lean in closer. “What the fuck is she doing out in public? Shouldn’t she be cataloging books or some shit?” he complains unnecessarily.

“Looks like she came back for another piece of the big D.” Dylan laughs next to him, smacking me in the bicep. “That kiss she gave you the other night was hot.”

Yeah. It was.

“I went home and jerked off to it,” Zeke admits, taking a pull off his beer bottle. “I had the worst stiffy walking home.”

Yeah. Me too.

My gaze searches the room, finally landing on Jameson huddled near the door wearing a heavy winter jacket—full-length goose down—along with mittens and a scarf. I cringe inwardly, wondering what the hell she’s doing here, and why the fuck she’s dressed like a goddamn Eskimo princess.

None of the other chicks here are wearing clothes—well, they are, but barely—and here comes Jameson Clark, bundled up for a trip to the Arctic Circle.

It’s thirty degrees outside, not thirty below.

Still, I watch her enter the living room with a small group of friends; one I recognize as a regular on the fraternity row party circuit, another is my roommate Parker’s regular fuck buddy. All of them are very nice girls, I’m sure, but with groupie mentalities—though not a single one of them is as conservative and buttoned up as James.

Jameson. Jim.

I try to listen as Zeke criticizes beside me, but instead find myself glued to James as she slowly lowers the zipper on her puffy coat. Drags the zipper slowly down her body. Pulls the lapels apart, arching her spine to pull her arms free.

Tossing her head back, she laughs at something Fuck Buddy says and does an odd little dance on her heels as her friends grab the end of her scarf and unwind. Then, all together, they remove Jameson’s thick mittens and stuff them in the pockets of her puffy coat.

She shakes out her long, dark brown hair.

That goddamn hair.

It’s mussed and damp from the snow flurries outside, and kind of sexy as shit, even if a bit unkempt.

I look away, but not before catching sight of an emerald green cardigan that’s probably some pretentious fabric like cashmere, pulled over a V-neck tee shirt, jeans, and—my eyes skim her body from tits to toe—black heeled boots.

Yup. Way too many clothes.

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