Page 302 of Mad Girl

“Show me what you showed him,” you said.

“Showed who?”

“Willoughby. Show me what he didn’t like.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“What happens to you?” you asked with a perplexed little smile. “Do you morph into something?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Are you a siren? Drawing me ever closer to complete ruin with each kiss? Am I halfway there, and I haven’t realized it yet?”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Too real. Too possible.

“Are you like the female praying mantis? During the middle of it, will you have to behead me?”

I laughed. “Oh my God. Stop. And during the middle of what?”

You dragged your nose down the bridge of mine. “You know what.”

Heat pooled between my thighs. “Mighty bold of you to assume we’ll make it that far.”

“We’ve been over this, Elliot. I know. I feel it.”

I felt it, too. Against my knee, actually. A firm promise that made my body thrum with anticipation. Could I truly let go with you? The dazzling glow of the Christmas tree—the rich clove-orange scent clinging to the air, your body pressing into mine, my lips still tingling from your kiss—made it easy to believe I could.

“Wait,” you said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Are you a dominatrix? Do you have a whip? Will you try to punish me?”

The darkness within me stirred. “What if I said yes? Is that something you’d be into?”

You laughed, unsure. “I don’t know. You already dominate me as it is.”

“Since when?”

“Since always. How do you not know?”

“Know what?”

You pressed my hand to your heart. “How much power you have over me.”

“I don’t feel like I have any power at all,” I confessed. “Not over you or anything.”

“Someday,” you whispered, lifting my hand to your mouth, “I’ll drop to my knees and gladly prove you wrong.”

My heart spiked as you planted a kiss to the bottom of my palm, looking up at me through those long, dark eyelashes.

“But your answer’s no,” I said with some effort, “to the dominatrix thing.”

“You can have me however you want me,” you said, voice deliciously dark, full of meaning and promise.

“Or you could just tell me what you want,” I said, pulling my arm from your grasp, then pushing my hand down your stomach.

But you caught my wrist before I could get very far. “Not right now,” you rasped.

“I want to touch you.”

“No.”