Page 311 of Mad Girl

“The one from Halloween—like you’re scared.” You stroked my cheek. “What are you so afraid of?”

Disappointing you. Watching you walk away. Losing you forever. Breaking us both. “Everything,” I confessed.

You brought my face to yours, kissing me so tenderly and thoroughly my chest ached as you flipped us sideways again. And then you were pushing me onto my back and dragging your nose down my body, pausing between my breasts before making your way to my stomach. The sliver of bare skin beneath my top caught your attention. You lingered there, lips tracing a slow path from hip to hip before your fingers slipped beneath the hem of my shorts. Exploring. Teasing.

My heart skipped. “What are you doing?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Jesus, Casey. What didn’t I want you to do? “Oh, please,” I said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Like you actually plan on doing something⁠—”

You jerked down one side of my shorts, eyes gleaming as you peered up at me. “I won’t stop if you don’t want me to,” you murmured against my hip, gently tugging on the other side. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want whatever you want.”

“Thank God,” you breathed, and with one quick jerk of your wrists, you yanked those shorts down to my ankles.

Your head lolled to the side as you parted my knees. A rough, needy sound slipped from your throat. The way you looked at me—hungry, possessive—sent warmth flooding through my veins. “You’re so”—using the pad of your thumb, you traced me down the middle—“beautiful.”

I shivered with anticipation. “I bet you say that to all the girls. The guys, too.”

The dark flicker of your eyes made my gut clench. “I don’t, actually—and don’t you dare try to ruin this.”

You kissed the inside of my knee, then brushed your lips along the inside of my thigh. The stubble on your face tickled the sensitive skin there, making me squirm. “The shit that comes out of your mouth,” you whispered, lips drawing closer, the ache inside me growing stronger, my skin burning hotter. On fire. So much tension. Something had to give soon—if you didn’t do it, I would. I’d have to. You dragged your nose along the crease between my thigh and hip. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

I couldn’t decide what I wanted more: to cry or the warm relief of your mouth. “No,” I rasped. “It’s a real problem.”

You kissed the birthmark at my bikini like, then traced it with your tongue. “We need to work on this problem of yours. It drives me mad.”

A bite—at the very top of my thigh—so unexpected and sharp I gasped.

Were you into biting, too? Was it genetic? A punishment for the remark? A test?

If I asked you to do it again, would I fail?

Your eyes, when I met them, were nearly black: vast, liquid pools of longing and frustration. How would they change if you saw the real me? Past the surface? Past the lies? To the dark, twisted things I held inside?

I gently pushed my fingers through your hair. “I’m so⁠—”

But the word sorry died on my lips as yours finally touched the place I needed them most, and then I couldn’t think at all.

Actually, that’s not true.

As you worked literal magic on me with your mouth, I tried not to think about why you were so phenomenal at this, how you could play my body like an instrument, your finger placement precise, the pressure of your tongue deliberate, your technique finely tuned. I’d be mad about it, except—my God—your attention to detail, the dedication to being insanely good at everything, clearly benefitted me. Without any direction at all, you knew to press on my stomach just so, to lick right there, to curl your finger like that. You knew to be patient, to be thorough, to tease in all the right places, to suck right there—yes, there—and don’t stop, please don’t stop⁠—

Your head popped up, gaze wild. “It pains me to say this, but you’ve got to keep your voice down.”

“Right,” I whispered, because I’d been crying that stuff out loud.

With a killer smirk, you dipped your head, kissed that sensitive spot between my legs, then went back to work, slowly unraveling me with your tongue. I writhed. I bucked. I pulled your hair. I whimpered your name—over and over—just like you said I would, each broken syllable wrenching yet another desperate groan from your throat. You were unraveling, too. Unraveling for me.

The room shimmered, shifting slightly out of focus, my back arching, fingernails digging into your shoulder. You moaned with me, the sounds rumbling from you—and therefore against me—pushing me over the edge, a wave of liquid-hot pleasure shuddering through my body.

Finally.

After all this time.

Release.