Page 146 of Mad Girl

You winced. “Bree.”

I glared. “Stop trying to feed me, Casey. I don’t want anything.”

Sighing, you crossed your arms over a heather-blue cardigan.

“She gets like this—after,” Michael told you.

I glared at him, too. “Shut up, Michael.”

“Elliot,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” I said, slinging my eyes in your direction. “Especially not in front of him.”

I saw you flinch before I jerked my gaze back to Michael.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it,” he said. “But I want you to know—I ended things with her last night.”

“Why?”

“Seriously?” A look of disgust flashed across Michael’s face. “I didn’t appreciate the bitchy way she handled that. I’m still pissed about it.”

I felt the tiniest bit better after hearing this.

“Also, your dad told me not to bring her back here.”

“He did?”

“He texted me after we left. He said, and I quote, ‘That bitch isn’t welcome at my house anymore.’ It’s not like I would’ve brought her back, anyway. But I’m glad Nic saw it, too, for once.”

“Saw what?”

“How messed up it was.”

But I wondered if that were true. Did Nic really see how messed up the apology routine was? Or just the part where he’d allowed Sienna to humiliate me?

The following week, my dad traveled to New York for two days.

That first night, when I had trouble falling asleep, I picked up a book I’d borrowed from Tinsley about a bunch of prep school kids partaking in some salacious activities at their boarding school. I’m not saying the subject matter of that book caused me to end up in your bedroom in the middle of the night, just that I tiptoed downstairs and spotted your bedroom door ajar, and I could just make out your bare leg, draped across the duvet. So I thought, Why the hell not?

Despite how creepy and weird it was for me to watch you sleep.

Lying on your back, you had one arm slung out to the side while the other rested across your abdomen, tattooed hand rising and falling with each breath you took. I studied your face in profile: hair mussed, mouth closed, long black eyelashes fluttering against your cheek.

“Go figure,” I whispered. Because you were perfect and beautiful, even in sleep.

But the most enticing thing to me as I watched you that night wasn’t your face, or even the sight of your bare chest.

It was the white duvet draped dangerously low on your waist. More specifically, the jut of bare hip peeking out from beneath the wrinkled fabric.

You were naked under there. It was obvious.

A hot, prickling sensation moved through my body as I stood beside your bed, trancelike, entertaining the idea of slipping underneath your covers, curiosity thrashing violently in my chest. Wild and ravenous, Casey. Like a living thing. This need to know you. Be closer to you. Feel you. A need so unbearable it bordered on ache.

Standing there, I fantasized about it: your mouth, your hands, the hard planes of your body. Other parts of you, too. The secret parts. How I could take those parts and fit them inside me. How I could memorize each piece of you until I knew them all by heart.

What would you do if I joined you? Would you turn to me? Lean into me? Press your mouth to mine?

I tiptoed closer, feeling just brave enough to find out. When I went to lift the duvet, however, the floor creaked beneath my weight, and you stirred. I snatched my hand back, heart pounding as your eyes slowly drifted open. You blinked a few times, like I might be an apparition or something, then jerked awake.