The Studying Hours(20)

Jameson huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, blue eyes sparkling. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“No, but I can pin you to the ground and take it from you.” The thought gets me excited and my blood surges. “How about I give you a two-second lead. One—”

I don’t even finish the count because Jameson lunges toward the bathroom, light on her feet and quicker than a track team sprinter. I lunge for her but she switches trajectories, makes a quick right, dodges my outstretched arms, and dives for the bed.

Falling a few inches short, she scrambles on top of it then rises to stand in the center, waving the threadbare tank top above her head like a victory flag.

“Yes! Suck it!” she bellows, fist pumping the air and jumping up and down on the cheap, shoddy mattress. Arms outstretched, I wince at the sight of her remarkable tits bouncing with the motion. “Suck it, Osborne.”

“Aww, aren’t you just the cutest.” I cross my thick, tattooed arms over my chest. “Don’t be so damn quick to celebrate, Clark. You’re stranded up there now.”

That wipes the cocky smirk from her face.

“Dammit,” comes her breathy curse. She bites down on her bottom lip before removing a stray hair from her mouth. “I loathe you right now.”

No she doesn’t.

“You’re kind of fucked.” I’m catlike in my approach, creeping across the carpet like a predator stalking its prey. “Which is too bad, because I’m really enjoying this.”

Meow.

“What are you going to do with me?” she whispers. Her flimsy white tank top is clutched to her chest, providing zero protection.

“What would you like me to do?” Because I can come up with a million different ideas, all of them involving legs, tits, and ass. And nudity. Lots and lots of nudity.

“Um…” Her eyes dart from me, to the bathroom, to the dresser. Me. Bathroom. Dresser.

Me.

Poor thing is planning her exit strategy, but it’s clear she’s failing miserably because she’s still standing in the middle of the bed; I give her an A for effort, but a big fat F for execution.

“You could make a run for it,” I start, altruistically spreading my hands wide. “Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to come over there and—whoa! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I watch as she drops the white tank on the bed and reaches for the waistband of her black wool leggings. Balancing on the squishy mattress while she shoves them down past her hips, knees, and ankles, she steps out of them and they get tossed listlessly to the floor.

My eyes hit the skimpy baby blue underwear covering the patch between her smooth, sexy legs.

Lace. My weakness.

“You put those goddamn pants back on this instant,” I thunder, taking a step forward.

“You sound like someone’s father.” Jameson laughs, reaching for the hem of her thick, wool ski sweater. “And I’m not going to be calling you Daddy any time soon.”

She pulls the sweater higher, exposing a pale expanse of well-toned abdomen.

“Stop it. What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, genius?” Her muffled laughter taunts me. “Payback’s a bitch.”

She lets out a shriek then a gasp when my arms go around her bare waist and I plow her into the mattress, flipping her down onto her back, pile-driver style.

“Oz!” She belly laughs. “Get off me!”

“Say the magic word,” I tease, hovering above her. Like magnets to metal, my fingers find the bare skin of her thigh and land there by gravitational pull. Skimming lightly, they don’t stop until they find the wooly bottom of her sweater.

Tug. Tug that shit down so it covers up her taut stomach, because God forbid I have to look at that shit right now and keep my hands to myself.

Easier said than done.

I lean into her until I’ve lightly nudged her delicate shoulders flat on the mattress, hook under her legs until they’re cradled in my arms, and stare down at her.

“Say the magic word,” I repeat, my voice raspier than intended and far more serious.

“The magic word.” Little smartass.

My head dips low, whispering in the hollow of her neck. “Nope, not it. Try again.”

Burning hot, my hand moves from the backside of her knee. It tracks unhurried up her smooth, shaved thigh, imprinting its searing hot need on her skin. Spreading my palm wide, my thumb strokes that intoxicating indentation of her bikini line.

She lets me.

It’s smooth and completely hairless and now I’m fucking dying to know: “Do you wax your pussy, Jameson?”

A little whimper and a whispered, “No, I shave it,” has me aching to see it. Touch it. Taste it.

Under the plain cardigan sweaters, the prim pearl necklace, the refined black patent leather shoes, Jameson Clark is sporting some prime, Grade A hairless pussycat inside her pants.

And I want to play with it.

“Goddamn that’s sexy.” She’s sexy, all of her. Every last conservative inch.

My thumb brushes the seam of her panties and she gasps like a good girl. I angle toward her, wanting to press my mouth on her visible bare skin.

Jameson licks her lips. “Oz, please.”

“Please? Please what?” Please beg me to bang you.

“Let me up?”

She doesn’t sound convinced that’s what she wants, not in the least. Not with all the panting. Not with her chest rising and falling with each labored breath. She sounds like she’s relishing the press of my hard body, the contact of our pelvises as I gently pin her to the mattress in a classic wrestling move.

I inch away, giving her space, help her rise by taking her hand and pulling her up. Those high cheekbones flush and she looks away with a huff when she’s back on her feet. Hot. Bothered.

Flustered.

“Fine. I won’t wear the tank top. You win,” she mutters, avoiding my dark eyes. “Give me your shirt.”

I stand, adjust the raging hard-on inside my pants, and cross the room. I grab the shirt that’s been folded into a neat cotton square off the dresser, and, lifting it to my nose, I give it a whiff. “Mmm, smells like you. I’ll probably never wash it again.”

Jameson’s trembling hands reach for it. “Just give it to me.”

“See? Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about…”





Jameson





Oh my god, I have to pee.

Bad.

In total darkness, I ungraciously slide out of bed as quietly as I can so I don’t wake a slumbering Oz—who, it turns out, is a total bed hog—and feel my way along the wood-paneled wall in the general direction of the bathroom.

Thankfully, the light is already on, the overhead light above the tub emitting a dull glow. I have to pee so bad my fingers are already inside the waistband of my underwear when I beeline for the toilet in a squat. Shoving them down around my ankles, I lower myself with a relieved groan.

I pee, eyes squeezed shut to ward out the glow, only cracking them open when I fail to find the end of the toilet paper.

I shimmy my sheer, blue underwear up my slender thighs.

Turn to flush.

Raise my head to check myself in mirror as I wash my—

“Fuck Jameson.” My name is drawn out in a husky, forced moan.

I gasp, scared shitless.

“Holy shit!” I yell, swatting a startled hand toward Oz. If I had a weapon, I’d club him with it. “You asshole! You scared the crap out of me—”

“Fuck Jameson.”

“Wh-what…I’m so sorry. I thought you were in bed!”

I spin toward the sink, our eyes meeting in the mirror, mine widening in shock, his in pleasure, then I finally let them trail down his thick, bent, pumping arm. Red mesh athletic shorts pool around his ankles, his large hand wrapped around the length of his hard—

“Oh my god.”

I do a swift check, just to be sure. Yup. Sebastian Osborne is masturbating in the bathroom, and I just peed two feet from him.

Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.

And if I’m being honest, I don’t want to.





Sebastian





“Oh my god Oz, what the hell are you doing!” The high-pitched indignation is completely unnecessary as Jameson meets my aroused, half-lidded eyes in the mirror. Hers are round with shock and horror and something else entirely as she casts surreptitious glances down at my stroking palm.

Twice.

Three times.

“I would think it was pretty obvious what I’m doing,” I grunt out, words catching with each even stroke. “Besides, this is your fault.”

“My fault!” She stands frozen at the sink, back to me while water drips from her wet hands. “You’re masturbating while I peed, you freaking creeper! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Maybe you should have thought of all this before you stripped down to that skimpy underwear and got me hard with that shaved pussy of yours.”

“I-I…how…”

Another slow stroke up and down the blunt tip of my dick and my eyes flutter shut. “Everything about you makes me hard. I don’t know what my fucking problem is.” Goddamn this feels good. “Jesus Jameson, the door was closed. Who’d you think was in here?”

“I… You didn’t lock it, jackass! Plus, it’s one o’clock in the morning! I thought you were in bed!”