Page 310 of Mad Girl

“Where are you going?” I asked as you stood to leave.

“To put the kettle on,” you said over your shoulder.

That night, after I washed my face and brushed my teeth, the sight of you in my bed—shirtless, brooding, staring at my ceiling—caused a warm, sparkling sensation to fizzle low in my stomach. The guys on Tinsley’s phone had nothing on you.

As I climbed under the covers, your eyes briefly snagged on my pajamas—my flimsy white shorts and matching cropped cami, a dainty pink rosebud nestled between my breasts—before you slid your gaze back to the ceiling. Meanwhile, I ogled the hard plane of your chest, the light sprinkling of dark hair, the soft brown of your nipples—which I had the sudden, unexpected urge to put in my mouth. Some guys liked that, Tinsley said. She’d read about it in her books.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” I said softly, dragging my fingers down your stomach, and for once, you didn’t stop me. I explored the constellation of freckles scattered across your abdomen: four. Your belly button: concave. Your muscles: taut. The trail of hair: pointing south. All that bare skin. So warm and solid. So lickable.

Why didn’t I? Trace the shape of you with my tongue, that is?

Sometimes I lie awake on the thin foam mat I call a mattress in here, wondering why I didn’t lick you more. How ridiculous is that? All the trivial things I regret, in addition to everything else?

Playing connect the dots with the freckles on your stomach, I said, “Talk.”

You turned those tortured blue eyes on me. “Why? So you can tell me how wrong I am for wanting to be with you?”

My heart squeezed. “If being with me prevents you from having a relationship with John, then of course it’s wrong.”

“I need you more than I need a dad right now.”

“Have you ever stopped to think about what John needs? About the twenty-one years he’s already missed?”

With a sigh, you turned onto your side, propping your head on one hand. “We could be together in secret. You could have a fake boyfriend”—a scowl here—“who isn’t Willoughby. When you’re with him, he’ll only touch you in the places I deem appropriate. But at night”—you swept the braid off my shoulder—“when you’re with me”—traced the swell of my breast—“I’ll touch you everywhere”—dragged your finger down the center of my body—“and my name”—skimmed the top of my shorts—“will be the one”—drifting closer, to the place—“you whimper”—I wanted you—“in the dark”—the most, skin burning, on fire, keep going—“right before you come in my mouth.”

You rasped those final, torturous words at the same time you withdrew your hand. Such a tease. Was it possible, I wondered, to combust from sexual frustration alone?

“Sounds—um—messy,” I said, struggling to formulate words. “And complicated. And also like the plot of a book Tinsley would love to read.”

“I can’t give you up,” you whispered.

“And I can’t be the reason you don’t get what you came here for.”

You jerked my leg over your hip and flipped to your back again, pulling me with you. With my knees settled astride your hips, I let myself imagine it.

You. Me. Tangled in those sheets.

The beautiful, filthy things we could do together.

Could we? Still? Would I be able to live with myself?

“Have you been listening to me at all?” you asked, grasping for bare skin, slipping your fingers underneath my top. “I came here to find out who I was, and I found the answer in you. I’m yours. No matter what happens, that’ll always be true.”

You were wearing the black joggers, fabric so thin I could feel everything. Every warm, reckless, desperate inch—pining for me, too. Gently, you rocked my hips. Let out a ragged groan. Splayed your throat for me. I thought about licking a hot trail up the side of your neck, but I couldn’t stop staring—the more I moved, the more you came undone. All heat and hunger, but something undeniably soft, too.

A sharp ache curled between my legs.

You pulled my braid loose. Peered up at me with hooded eyes. Gripped my hip, hard. “Saying no doesn’t do it for me, but this particular fantasy does. You. On top. Your hair in my face. This beautiful mouth”—you tugged my bottom lip down—“letting go. Giving me everything. Claiming me.”

My pulse fluttered, a fire burning bright in my chest. Because I wanted that, too, Casey. To let go. To give you everything. To know I could, and it would be okay. Mostly, I wanted to give you the stability and acceptance your damaged heart craved.

But I knew better.

Broken can’t heal damaged. Life doesn’t work that way.

“There’s that look again,” you said, cupping my face.

“What look?”