Page 72 of The Casanova Complex

“Yeah, works for me, but…” I say, giving her a playful grin. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She looks down at my bed in question. “What?”

“Since we’re not going to see each other before the game Friday, I’m gonna need my kiss right now.”

We’re playing Lake Charles this weekend, and it’s a three-hour-drive away game, so obviously, I won’t be seeing her beforehand.

My gaze tracks the column of her throat as she slowly swallows, those dark eyes turning molten right in front of me. Merritt gives me an eye roll, feigning her annoyance like always, but the thing is, I call bullshit.

I know she’s attracted to me, and she likes kissing me despite the front of her own that she puts on because her body betrays her. I see the way her pupils widen and her lips part when I’m sliding my hands along her jaw. I feel the little whimpers that spill out of her against my lips like they’re her best-kept secret. How she’s dazed and breathless when I pull away, her taste still lingering on my lips.

She can pretend all she wants because I know the real truth. The one she’s not ready to admit to herself, and I still have no clue why.

Why is she fighting so hard against herself when it comes to me?

Is it me, or just men in general, after dealing with Gauthreaux’s dumbass? The question tugs constantly in the back of my mind, and I want to ask her, but I’m scared it’ll make her pull away or that I’m not actually going to like the answer.

And I feel like she’s finally starting to give me crumbs, little delicious morsels of who she really is, so I’m not willing to chance it.

She rolls her eyes again and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Will it even work that early?”

I shrug. “I dunno, but we’ll have to test the theory.”

When she stays glued to where she’s standing, giving me that sassy, slightly pouty look, I arch a brow, my voice lowering to a deep rasp. “Come here, Merritt.”

Her eyes widen at the low, commanding tone of my words, and she hesitates, her feet staying rooted in place as she draws her pillowy bottom lip between her teeth, her steely, heated gaze holding mine like she’s trying to decide whether or not she’s actually going to listen.

Ultimately, she does, taking two small steps forward, but still not close enough, toying with me. “I’m not sure what gave you the impression that you’re the one controlling the shots here, Goalie.”

“Deal’s a deal.” I shrug. “That is… unless you can’t hold up your end of it?”

She scoffs. “You wish.”

“I happen to remember a legally binding contract or something of that nature?” I’m teasing her now, the same way that she’s doing to me by being juuuust out of reach.

I’ve never wanted to touch anyone or anything as badly as I want to touch her.

The result of sitting feet away from her for the last hour and unable to pull my eyes off her.

Seeing her squirm on my bed, imagining how she’d feel if she were writhing beneath me, watching her torturously drag her tongue along her lips as she was concentrating. The soft exhales that slipped past her lips when she got stuck on whatever she had been writing.

My thoughts have been racing with a hundred different ways that I want her, unable to focus on anything that isn’t Merritt St. Pierre.

I’m on my knees for this girl. A complete fucking goner, and all we’ve done is kiss. She’s spent the majority of the time busting my balls, and still, here we are.

My gaze drops to her pretty lips when they part, and she rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, her chest rising and falling with the same quickness mine is.

The air feels thick and charged, and fuck, all I want is to feel her soft, silky skin beneath my fingers.

I’m desperate just to touch her.

Bringing my eyes back to hers, our gazes lock.

Heat simmers in the depths of her eyes, and I realize that she’s stepped closer. Finally, fucking finally, close enough.

Never taking my eyes off hers, I reach for her, lifting my hand to the shredded hem of the black cutoff denim shorts hugging her thighs, fingering one of the loose, frayed threads.