Page 333 of Mad Girl

I let you go on another minute or two before finally whispering, “Stop.”

Immediately, you withdrew your hand, and I took a deep breath. But you didn’t stop there. You weren’t done with me yet. You dropped your head, pressed your mouth to the base of my throat, and then: the soft scrape of your tongue, all the way up to my chin, followed by a kiss.

This, too—again and again and again.

Everywhere your hand touched, your mouth redressed. The tears kept flowing, they coated my face, some slipped down my chin—and you took those, too. You claimed them all. You lapped up my tears with the same reverence you’d kissed my bruise on Halloween.

You moved to my mouth next, coaxed it open with your tongue, and kissed me deep. The salty tang of my tears met your toothpaste, and it should’ve tasted strange—wrong, even—but somehow it was perfect. Raw and real and us.

And I didn’t plan what happened next. It wasn’t some strategic choice, just a spark catching fire in my chest. The wild certainty that if I gave this part of myself to anyone, it had to be you. Not because you’d earned it. Because no one else had ever made me feel this safe. Because you saw me and didn’t flinch. Because you’d held the darkest piece of me in your hand, and you stayed. When I slipped my fingers down the front of your pajama pants, your warm skin contracted beneath my touch.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you said, drawing back, breathless. “What are you doing?”

“I’m ready.”

“But shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we talk about what just happened?”

“After.” I kissed your chin. “Take off your pants.”

“Wait,” you said again, climbing off me. You sat up, and I did, too. “I have to—I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I said, taking your face in my hand. “I promise.”

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re ready?” you asked, searching my gaze.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You kissed me again, then pulled back. “Shit. I don’t have a condom.”

I leaned over the bed, reached for my nightstand, and plucked one from the drawer. “I’ve got you covered,” I said, holding it up between us.

You snatched the gold foil packet from my fingers. “This is one of mine. Did you⁠—?”

I pulled your mouth against mine to shut you up, only pausing to yank the camisole over my head. Your bare skin against mine—that’s all I wanted. Craved. Needed.

Worse than I ever needed pain.

Maybe you needed it, too, because your hands were on me instantly. Gripping. Pulling. Spreading my legs over your lap. You crushed my body to yours, and it was pure ecstasy—the dig of your fingers, the heat of your chest, the groan you let out when our bodies met, skin to skin.

You kissed me like you were starving—shoulder, collarbone, neck—before sucking the skin at the base of my throat into your mouth, so hard that I gasped. Yes.

I drew back. “You don’t have to, like, be gentle or anything—during. I can take it.”

You swept your lips across my jaw. “Maybe I want to be gentle.”

My throat squeezed at the thought. “I’m just saying, you can—you can go harder.”

“If I do that, it’ll end rather quickly.” A small smirk at the corner of your mouth, your hands still trailing over me. Slower now. Teasing. “I’d like to take my time. Do you have to micromanage everything, or are you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.” I gave a little laugh that definitely wasn’t nervous, either.

“Elliot, your hands are shaking.”

I hadn’t realized, but you were right. My fingers quivered against your face.

You shifted beneath me, hands sliding up my ribs, fingers brushing over the curve of my breasts, and it was only then that I felt it. A tremor. The unsteadiness of your fingers as they coasted up my body. You cupped my jaw. “It’s okay, darling,” you whispered. “Mine are, too.”

“What are you so nervous about? You’ve done this before.”