So I watch her lips and revel in the feel of her—
Stop it fucker.
Focus.
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.
Rests them there, inhaling. Presses those lips to one side, then the other.
My bottom lip.
Gives my cupid’s bow a quick flick of the tongue.
My nostrils flare as I stand, ramrod straight and stiff, waiting…waiting until Jameson pulls back, her smooth hands lingering, never leaving my person, blue eyes memorizing every detail of my face.
Debating.
My dark, hawk-like gaze follows the teeth that drag over her lower lip and pull, follow the tongue darting out to moisten her mouth.
I don’t move a single muscle in my body, but can’t help goading her. “I don’t have all day here.”
“Shhhh,” she admonishes. “Quiet please. When you talk, it makes me want to slap some sense into you.”
Her pink mouth hovers just a breath away, teasing, the air between us growing oddly combustible. The energy between our lips emits a slight electric sizzle that I’ll lie in bed questioning later—but for now, my dick twitches inside my dark jeans and my fists clench and unclench at my sides, fighting to gain some control of the situation.
It proves impossible.
My legs get restless, and suddenly adrenaline is coursing through my entire body. I could do a hundred laps around campus—which is so fucking ridiculous.
She’s not even my usual type—blonde, stupid, and easy.
She’s a nobody, and I don’t screw nobodies.
Not usually.
Lips pursed, she finally presses them over mine.
Sighs.
My lips part and like a good girl, she slides her tongue unhurriedly inside.
I’m hard. So fucking hard.
Jameson tastes fresh—like peppermint gum and strawberries—and suddenly I find my hands circling her slim waist, pulling her flush to my body so I can grind my erection into her thigh as our lips part. Farther. My tongue seeks its way inside...all the way inside.
As deep as a lifeline.
Within seconds we’re making out like unsupervised high school students in their parents’ basement, right in the middle of the damn library, surrounded by our peers.
I groan when she bites my bottom lip then sucks on it.
From behind, I hear my asshole teammates at the table across the room catcalling—not loudly enough that the librarian will come over, but loud enough that Jameson breaks the kiss, pushing back on my solid rock of a heaving chest with a moan, distancing herself, hand poised at her lips.
After a few steadying breaths, she breathily asks, “Was that good enough for a payday? Satisfied now?”
Fuck no. “I won’t be satisfied until I’m fucking you on a table in a study room.” I grapple for her hand. “Come on.”
Her eyes widen in surprise when I reach forward to grab her arms. Intention: pull her back in for another kiss. Reality: she evades me, sidestepping away, her ass hitting the table, jostling the lamp, and knocking her pens off the edge with a clatter. An unsteady hand flies to her swollen lips, gently caressing them with the pads of her fingertips.
“I’m not that kind of girl.”
My blazing eyes take her in, head to toe: jeans, white tee, black cardigan, gleaming pearls.
Pearls. Jesus H. Christ.
“Then what kind of girl are you? One that’s not into having a good time? Or are you just a tease?”
I visualize the scene with her in my mind. Haphazardly shoving our books off the table to the floor. Clearing it off so I can set her on the edge. Slide off her jeans. Caress her in places…all over. Inside places with my dick. Her clit while I watch her come, spread out on the study room table.
“You won your bet,” James begins slowly, smoothing a hand down her ponytail. “You’ve won your money, and I’ve mollified my curiosity.” Her big blue eyes, guarded now, roam to the table where Zeke and Dylan sit, watching. “You should go. Your friends are waiting.”
I give a jerky nod, my hand reaching down to dramatically adjust the hard-on in my pants. “Thanks for the blue balls.”
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 fucking 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 asshole.
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.