Reading Online Novel

The Studying Hours(9)



“Ravish you.” I say it with wonder. “See, that right there fills my head with so many fantastic erotic visuals.”

A swipe of the highlighter followed by an undignified hmph is her only reply.

“Ravish. Ravish. You shouldn’t have said that because now I consider you a challenge.”

“Be my guest.” Jameson laughs again, a soft, low chuckle that sends a damn shiver up my spine. “What you do with that information is not my problem.”

My eyes skim the top half of her body. Collarbone, graceful neck. Breasts.

“Want to bet?”

“God no.” She laughs. “Is this your way of trying to get your two hundred and fifty dollars back?” She grabs her pencil and wields it like a tiny sword in my direction. “Which you still haven’t paid me, by the way.”

“We agreed I’d pay you when they pay me, and I will, Scout’s honor.”

“Don’t you have to have been a Boy Scout to make those sorts of promises?”

“Probably.”

“You’re terrible.”

“But you like it.”

An eye roll and a sigh. “You said you weren’t going to make noise.”

“I know, but I have to know what your deal is.”

“My deal?”

“Yeah, you know—what’s your story? Do you come here to study often? Do you ignore everyone, or just me? Why are you wearing that necklace?”

Her laugh is low and entertained. “Can we save that line of questioning for another day? I have a feeling if I start answering, I’m never getting anything done.”

Dammit, she’s right.

Now I’m the one sighing. “Fine.”

“Do your homework, Oswald.”





Sebastian





“We have to stop meeting like this.”

I look up from editing the text on the screen of my laptop, surprised to see Jameson Clark standing at the foot of my study table with a sly grin. Winter hat pulled down over her hair that hangs in one long chestnut braid over her breast. Jacket in one hand, laptop in the other, her pink cheeks are flushed.

I smile at the sight of those little amber freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. They’re sweet.

I want to lick them.

“You sure do come to the library a lot,” I tease. “Here, sit.”

My foot pushes out the chair opposite me and she pulls it the rest of the way out before hesitating, laptop poised on the corner of the table.

She drapes her jacket on the chair before taking a seat. “I could say the same about you. You seem to be here as often as I am.”

“True, but you know—got that scholarship.” I wink at her and she goes through the ritual of laying out her school supplies: pens, notebooks, textbooks, laptop.

Neon highlighter.

Her blue eyes soften. “I still can’t get over the fact that you actually study.”

“I still can’t get over the fact that you find me resistible.”

“Do your homework, Oswald.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because that’s your name?” She gives me a duh look.

“No. It’s not.”

Genuinely perplexed, her brows furrow. “It’s not?”

“Wait. You actually thought my name was Oswald?”

“Um, yes?”

I stare at her. “Wait. You actually thought my name was Oswald?”

“Do you hear an echo?”

I ignore her teasing. “You’re telling me you haven’t googled me yet?”

“Um, no?”

“Knock it off.” I give my head a mental shake, marveling at this information. “So let me get this straight—you have no idea who I am.”

She throws her pencil down on the wooden table and crosses her arms. “I have a feeling you’re just dying to enlighten me.”

Damn right I am! “Damn right I am!”

Jameson leans back in her chair with a patronizing expression. “Fine. Go ahead. I’m all ears, hanging on your every word, your majesty.”

Shit. Her blatant sarcasm kind of took the wind out of my sail. “Oz. As in Osborne.”

Jameson stares blankly before scrunching up her cute freckled nose. “Your first name is Osborne? Crap. That wasn’t even on my radar as a possibility.”

“No.” Impatient, my leg begins to bounce under the table. “My last name is Osborne.”

Her hands go in the air in surrender. “Yikes, don’t get all offended. How the hell was I supposed to know?”

Is she fucking serious?

“You know what? Never mind.” I reach over the side of the table, dig into my backpack, and whip out a textbook. Cracking it open, I do my best to ignore her.

“Come on, don’t be a baby. I told you, I didn’t know.” She’s quiet for a few seconds, and then, “Can I still call you Oswald? I’m sad now knowing it’s not your real name.”

Agitated, I turn to face her, slamming the book closed with a satisfying thud. “Do I look like an Oswald to you?”

She squints, sizing me up. “Hmmm, not really, now you mention it. Now that I’m taking a good look at you, you’re more of a Blake. Or a Richard.”

“Okay, now you’re fucking with me.”

“Me?” She points a finger at her chest. “Noooo.”

We both start laughing then, the clear sound of her lighthearted giggle doing bizarre shit to my stomach and heart that I can’t label—weird, fucked up fluttering and shit.

Annoying.

When we finally stop snickering, she leans in across the table and quietly asks, “So what’s your name?”

“I just told you—it’s Oz.”

“No.” Her head gives a little shake. “Your real name. It’s not like I can’t google it if I was feeling motivated, which I’m not.” She says the last part with a roll of her eyes. “What did your parents name you?”

For a few quiet heartbeats, I consider not telling her, making her work for it. But then—

“Sebastian.”

“Your name is Sebastian?”

“Yup.” I let the P sound pop.

Jameson studies me then, harder than anyone’s ever studied me before, blue eyes searching the rigid lines of my face. The strong jawline. The faded bruise under my left eye from being locked in a chokehold full of elbow.

I feel every stroke of her examination, as if her smooth fingertips are truly caressing my skin.

“Sebastian,” she repeats quietly to herself, testing the name. She repeats it several more times, each pronunciation with a different inflection. “Sebastian…Sebastian. Hmm. Who would have thought?”

“I’d rather be called Oswald.”

“No you wouldn’t.” Her whisper carries across the table.

My chin rests in my palm, elbow propped on the table. “You’re right. That name sucks donkey balls.”

Jameson bites down on her lower lip, her gaze suddenly shy as she glances down at the books opened in front of me on the table. Her throat clears. “We’re not getting any work done.”

“True.” My finger traces the mouse pad in unhurried circles as she begins drumming her fingertips on the table.

“I should probably go.”

“Stay. Let’s talk for a few more minutes. No harm in that, yeah?”

She seems to mull this over, her teeth still pressed into her bottom lip. “Okay. We’ll talk. What do you want to know about me?”

“What’s the deal with your roommate and mine?”

Jameson’s surprised expression is fleeting. “I think they’re just friends with benefits. Why?”

“She should stay away from him. He’s a whore.”

Jameson laughs. Head thrown back, the cheerful sound fills the room. “That’s what they say about you.”

“Someone said I was a whore? Who?”

“Everyone. After they saw us talking at the party, my friends gave me quite an earful.”

I lean back in the chair and it squeaks when I tip it back on its legs. “Any good gossip?”

She mimics my posture and balances herself across from me. “Well, let me think here.” The legs hit the ground again and she scratches her chin. “Allison heard you having sex at the party this past weekend and said the door was rattling. So that was interesting news.”

I pretend to consider this. “Yup, can’t lie about that one. I railed that door and the redhead almost off their hinges. Got any others?”

“You date multiple people at once.”

“False. I don’t date anyone. Ever.”

Jameson’s face is an impassive mask. “Hayley told me you broke up with your last girlfriend over Twitter.”

A grimace twists my mouth into a frown. “Oh, Hayley told you, did she? Didn’t your mother teach you not to listen to rumors?”

“Yes, but is it true?”

“Yes, but in my defense, she wasn’t my girlfriend. She was a pity fuck who turned into a clinger.”

“A Twitter breakup?” This time Jameson winces. “That’s bad.”

“Sorry, but it’s the truth. It was the only way to get rid of her. Trust me, I did her a favor.”

“How is that doing her a favor? She was probably humiliated!” Then, “Can I ask what the tweet said?”

I chuckle. “Why don’t you just go on Twitter and look for yourself.”

Those fascinating eyes, which have been judging me for the past few minutes, narrow into bright blue slits as she drags her phone across the table, flips it over, and unlocks the screen.