Page 97 of The Casanova Complex

“Motherfucker, I think I might have a branch stuck in my h—” My mouth crashes against Bennett’s before he can even finish his sentence.

He’s barely made it all the way through my bedroom window, and I’ve already grabbed a fistful of his old, obscenely soft hockey hoodie and yanked him to me, slanting my mouth over his.

Despite me pouncing on him on sight, he doesn’t falter. Immediately, he curves his palms around the edge of my jaw and groans hungrily against my lips, the rough, desperate sound making my clit throb.

There’s something so unbelievably freaking hot about a man who has no problem being vocal about his desire for you.

That’s one thing I’ve discovered about Bennett recently… he’s not shy about anything when it comes to sex.

Or how badly he wants me.

Well, technically, not sex since we haven’t actually had sex, but you get what I’m saying.

Despite not having actual sex, we haven’t been able to keep our hands off each other since Thanksgiving. Every single time we’re together, that line that we keep dancing near seems to inch further and further back until it feels like there is barely one there at all anymore.

But staying on this side of it is safe for us both. It’s not breaking any rules or complicating things more than we already are.

Because hooking up with my fake boyfriend, who I may or may not be starting to have real feelings for, is as uncomplicated as it gets, right?

Cue the sarcasm.

I push the thoughts out of my head completely, just like I have been since Thanksgiving night when everything… shifted.

When I thought I might actually pass out from how hard he made me come without ever laying a single finger on me.

Which has led us here, with Bennett’s tongue tracing a blazing path down my neck, his hands sliding up the bare skin along my sides before he yanks my oversized T-shirt over my head and lets it fall to the floor.

I’m not wearing a bra, and his eyes flare when his gaze drops to my chest. To my nipples that are hard, pebbled peaks that seem to tighten further beneath the weight of his hungry stare.

He looks at me like he wants to devour me, and it makes my pussy clench.

His rough, calloused palms slide up my sides and over my rib cage until he’s curving them around the underside of my breasts, lifting them into his palms as if he’s gauging their weight. The pads of his thumbs sweep over the sensitive peaks, sending a ripple of heat rushing through me.

“I fucking love these,” Bennett rasps as he lowers his mouth to my nipple and sucks it between his lips. My hands fly to his head, tangling in the hair at his nape as his teeth rake over the tip. Immediately, he laves it with his tongue, lapping at me to soothe the bite of pain.

This man is an anomaly. Hard yet soft in all the right places, and I can’t get enough of it.

Of him.

And that’s a problem I’ll worry about later, much later… specifically, when his mouth isn’t on my body.

After giving what he deems is sufficient attention to one side, he moves to my other nipple, repeating his movements until I’m squirming, until I’m pressing my thighs together to dull the ache that’s formed between them.

When he starts walking me backward, I trip over my backpack, which I tossed to the floor, stumbling slightly.

“Sorry,” I say with a laugh, and he shoots me his signature, playful grin that makes my insides warm.

That makes those silly butterflies flutter incessantly in the pit of my stomach.

He disarms me so easily with a grin and his ridiculously talented mouth that it’s kind of alarming.

How easily he seems to push past the walls that I’ve had surrounding the most important parts of me for so long.

I’m not the girl who gets butterflies.

But with him… I guess I am.

I feel his lips ghost along mine, a whisper of a kiss, before his voice drops low and he murmurs, “Missed you, Mer Bear.”