Page 301 of Mad Girl

“Oh, I see. Now that we’ve moved past the lip thing, you’re fixating on the lap thing.”

You eyed me, twisting a strand of my hair tightly around your finger. “I don’t want your head in his lap. I don’t want his hand in your hair. I don’t want him wiping away your tears when I’m available to do that myself, and I certainly don’t want you sleeping with him, even if you’re only sleeping and nothing else.”

I swallowed the knot of regret in my throat. “I understand.”

“It’s just—when I see you with him, it makes me unbelievably jealous, and I don’t want to feel jealous of my brother any more than I already do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Him and John, you know? When I see them together? The closeness? The familiarity? The little things Michael takes for granted?”

“Like what?”

“John hugging him. John telling him about the day he was born. John lecturing him, or scolding him, or bugging him because he’s texted three times and Michael hasn’t responded yet, so John rings him instead, and Michael’s annoyed on the phone, when it’s obvious John’s just worried about him. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, listening to their phone call and wishing I had that sort of relationship with John myself, but knowing I never will. Even if John knew the truth, we’d never have the type of father-son relationship they have. It’s like you said that time at the beach: Michael has the luxury of taking these things for granted—Bree, too. But it bothers me more when I see Michael doing it. He has something I’ve coveted my whole life, and he doesn’t even appreciate it.”

“You sound like me at eight years old. Right before I stabbed him.”

“I do, don’t I?” you said with a sigh. “But I don’t want to punish him for it. I’m happy he has a dad who loves him. I just—I want a relationship with John, too. A real one, where he doesn’t think I’m his son’s friend or someone Nic’s keeping around because I’m convenient. It’s pathetic how badly I want that.”

You turned over, pointing your gaze at the ceiling again, looking hopeless.

I lifted up on one elbow, swept the hair off your forehead, and kissed the crease between your eyebrows. Then the tip of your nose, the center of your chin, the dip in your throat. Followed by your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your eye, back to your neck. Delicate kisses. Soft and lingering.

And I would’ve veered lower—into uncharted territory—except my heart was already doing crazy things, what with your breath coming out ragged next to my ear and your hand caught in my hair, tugging close to my scalp. Just close enough to the healing wound at the back of my skull to make it sing.

“See,” you said hoarsely. “Talking is good for us.”

“Therapy’s rubbing off on you.”

“Stop it.” Lifting up, you nudged me onto my back, then planted your mouth at the base of my throat, where you gently nipped at my pulse with your teeth. I shivered. “I’ve told you everything now.”

I slipped my fingers around the back of your neck. “Not everything.”

“The most important things,” you murmured against my skin. “And now I want the missing pieces of you.”

“Even the darkest pieces?” I breathed.

“I want those the most,” you whispered, lips sweeping across my jaw. You drew back, gaze drifting over the tight white tank I wore underneath your cardigan, along with the slice of bare stomach above my pajama pants. Your eyes sparkled black. “You’re cold.”

“Then warm me up.”

Your hot gaze searched mine, fingers roaming tentatively up my top. “May I?”

I swallowed, heart pounding. “You may.”

Slowly, your hand coasted up, fingertips skating—tentative and feather-soft—over my bare skin. You often touched me like that. With reverence. As if touching me were a privilege.

You brushed your thumb over my nipple. Let out a deep groan. Dropped your forehead to mine. And I thought about how that reverence might break me and how I wanted it, anyway. Wanted it to crack me wide open and fill me whole.

“You don’t want the darkest pieces,” I whispered against your mouth. “Trust me.”

“I want all the pieces,” you whispered back, gently palming my breast. “This one in particular happens to be a perfect fit. I knew it would be.”

My chest crackled. “You say that now, but you don’t know how dark they are.”

“Don’t care.” A soft kiss. “Let go.” A deeper one, more urgent this time, your tongue stroking mine. “Be vulnerable with me.”

My throat went dry when you drew back to look at me, withdrawing your hand from my shirt. I ached to pull it back.