Page 78 of The Casanova Complex

I hate him.

And not for the reason I originally thought that I did.

After that night in his apartment two weeks ago when we almost hooked up again and I told him about what happened our sophomore year, I’ve realized things that I can’t unrealize.

Like the fact that he didn’t reject me that night two years ago because he wasn’t interested, but because he really was that drunk.

His apology was sincere, and hearing about how he’s already been trying not to be that guy anymore honestly kind of made me see him in an entirely different light. It made me see a side of him that I think I was too guarded to see until then. I was still hanging on to that night and assumptions that aren’t actually true—at least they aren’t anymore.

Which leads me to the second realization.

I hate him because now, after that almost hookup and learning he’s not actually a dick… all I can think about is him making me come in a hundred different ways.

I can’t stop daydreaming about his hands on my body or how thick and hard he felt as I rocked my hips over his erection.

God, it feels like I’m losing my mind, and I can’t focus on anything, even more so than usual. My distraction currently is things that involve his lips or tongue or his…

My fingers dance along the seam of my panties, my pussy aching with need that I have no control over. Lower and lower they go until the pad of my middle fingers ghosts along my clit, rubbing soft, slow circles through the thin fabric.

Stop, Merritt. Enough.

It’s the same thing I’ve said to myself a thousand times since that night, and yet here we are.

Two weeks of wanting the guy I’ve spent the last two years disliking.

Two weeks of touching myself, of making myself come over and over without ever being satisfied because suddenly, it’s as if my body wants him and only him.

Two weeks of knowing that despite how badly I want to do the filthiest, most obscene things with him… I can’t.

Because Bennett is celibate. Another thing I learned that night.

He’s choosing to abstain from sex, and while I understand his reasoning completely and respect his boundaries, it feels like the universe giving me the world’s biggest fuck you.

Of course, when I’m finally ready to give in to this chemistry, this pull we seem to share, he’s off-limits.

The reformed playboy who’s suddenly swearing off sex.

Go figure.

I tear my hand away from my panties and roll over onto my stomach and bury my face into the sheets, groaning into the mattress. I’m frustrated with myself, with him, with literally the scratchy feel of my comforter rubbing against my heated, overly sensitive skin.

I’ll just die of horniness, and it’ll be all his fault.

Jesus, I even sound like Bennett right now with the level of theatrics.

I force myself to grab my laptop and open it back up, banishing all thoughts of him out of my head to focus on what’s important. I start at the first page of my law application and start reading again, attempting to do one last review for any errors.

It’s been the longest three days of my life between studying for midterms, working on the project we have to turn in next month, and finalizing the last details of my application.

I’ve barely slept, and I’ve had so much caffeine that my hands are shaking. Well, either that or the fact that I’m wound so tightly I feel like I could snap with my next breath.

Tonight’s the night. I’m finally submitting my application, and then the fate of my future is with OU Law admissions.

It’s nerve-racking and scary in a way that makes my stomach clench into the tightest knot, but also exciting. I’ve waited so long for this.

I know that I’ll spend the next few weeks stalking my email every hour of the day, waiting for a response.

I get a few sections down the screen when I hear a thud outside of my bedroom window, followed by a much louder one.