Page 103 of The Casanova Complex

Jesus fuck, how does she smell so goddamn good all the time?

Warm, sweet vanilla mixed with a hint of cherry tartness that makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and haul her upstairs just so I can spend the rest of the night devouring her.

It’s been far too long.

Three days will starve a man.

“Want something to drink? We’ve got eggnog, beer, some vodka seltzers.”

She tips her head back to look up at me. “Uhh, maybe just a little eggnog?”

“Cool. Stay right here, and I’ll go grab it for you.”

The sweet, lingering smile she gives me nearly makes me trip over my own feet before I’m even able to make it out of the living room. I have no idea how the fuck I’m supposed to act casual around her, like I don’t have fluttering in my stomach or a racing heart when she looks at me. Or fuck, how I’m two seconds away from popping a foot out when she kisses me.

I should probably be embarrassed by the level of down bad that I am for her, especially since she has no fucking idea, but I can’t seem to find the will to give a shit.

A couple of my teammates are in the kitchen when I walk in to fix Merritt a drink, so I stay for a few and talk. We’ve got a winter conference coming up before we get a couple of days off for the holiday, and we’re all pumped for it.

Every time I think about it too long, a sense of anxiety washes over me at the fact that I have no clue what the future holds right now. Not just my spot on the team, but what’s going to happen after graduation. Or what’s going to happen with Merritt when I finally tell her how I feel. When I finally get the courage to. Everything feels unsteady, and I fucking hate this feeling.

That anxiety amplifies when I walk back into the living room and see Gauthreaux standing in front of her wearing a cocky, self-assured smile. Standing far too close. His body language is familiar, like he feels comfortable being in Merritt’s personal space.

My grip tightens around the cup in my hand, and the plastic crinkles under the weight.

I watch as he lifts his hand and tries to touch her face, only for Merritt to quickly step back, swatting his hand away.

Good girl.

He has no fucking business trying to touch her. I know she can take care of herself—she’s perfectly capable—but I can’t help the surge of possessiveness crawling up my throat that’s so strong I might fucking choke on it.

I pull in a deep, uneven breath and force myself to walk calmly and not act like I want to rip off that hand he just tried to touch her with and shove it up his ass.

“Here you go, baby,” I murmur as I brush past him and stop in front of Merritt, handing her the drink.

I hear the annoyed huff behind me, but I ignore him entirely. Fuck him.

The only thing I care about right this very second is making sure that Merritt’s good.

I lift a brow in question, and she gives me a small smile. “Thanks, handsome.” Her brow pinches together when she glances down at my empty hands. “Are you not drinking? It’s not a game night. ”

“No, I had one earlier, but only one. I just…” Trailing off, I lower my voice. “I’d rather stay sober after… last time.”

Her deep brown eyes bounce between mine for a beat, her lips parting as if she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she lifts up on the tips of her toes and presses her mouth to mine. A soft, sweet brush of her lips, gone too soon when she pulls back to look up at me.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, but thank you, Bennett.”

I smile. “Nothing to thank me for.”

“Merritt…” Gauthreaux’s voice comes from behind me, and for a second, I forgot he was even fucking there.

When I turn and see that stupid fucking smirk on his face, I tense, my jaw clenching and my muscles pulling taut.

“We were talking, buddy,” he says, lifting a brow. “How about you not interrupt again?”

Something in my chest threatens to pop, probably the thread of self-control that I’m desperately clinging to.

What I would do for this fucker to just disappear. To get the fuck out of my life, Merritt’s life, off my goddamn team.