Page 336 of Mad Girl

“You don’t even know how good you are,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over my trembling chin. “How much I need this. Need you.”

Good. So much more than a simple word. It touched the deep, dark place in my damaged heart that wanted to be something other than bad, messed up, broken, a hard no, a psychopath, a freak. An open wound, exposed to the gravelly heat of your voice. That word didn’t belong to someone like me. But there you were, giving it to me, anyway. Giving me something I’d always craved.

“I need you to believe it,” you said. “Let yourself have this. Have me.”

I stared into your eyes, tears burning in mine—the raw, scraping ache of wanting to believe and fearing I shouldn’t.

To keep from crying, I pressed my lips to yours.

“Tell me you believe it,” you said against my mouth, curling your hand against my scalp.

“I do,” I whispered, rolling my hips, moving faster, surrendering to the moment. To you.

And then there was nothing but sensation. The wild push and pull of us, the heat of your skin, the way our bodies locked together flawlessly—like we’d been made for this, for each other.

We were lost. Floating. Bound.

I’d fought it so hard: the idea that my first time should be special. But it was. Because you weren’t some random boy. You were someone I fully trusted. Someone I knew really well. Someone I loved, even.

You were right about that, too, Casey. Right about all of it.

When it was over, we lay there, tangled together, our hearts still hammering. You traced lazy circles across my hip as I pressed soft kisses to your shoulder.

“Oh my God,” you murmured against my forehead. “That was…”

Amazing. Hot. Beautiful. All words you could’ve chosen instead of the one you did.

“Perfect.”

The impossibility of it—the lie—sliced right through me.

Even worse? He’d said it, too. On the sofa downstairs. When we were all snowed in together. You’re perfect for me.

My lips stilled against your skin.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that,” you said, voice filled with wonder.

I forced myself to breathe. “Like what?”

You lifted up onto your elbow. “Like it meant something.” You took my hand and brought it to your chest, flattening my palm over your still-racing heart. Curling your fingers around mine, you took a shaky breath. “I love you.”

You finally said them.

The words I’d hoped you’d never say out loud.

Because once they were out there—real and shimmering with expectation—they could be lost.

“I’ve wanted to say it for ages,” you said softly. “I love you, Elliot.”

My face crumpled.

“Hey,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over my cheek. “Don’t cry. I didn’t say it to upset you.”

But the tears kept coming. Hot and fast and unstoppable.

I shoved myself upright, pulling away from your warmth, your goodness, everything that made you perfect and me not. I reached blindly for your cardigan at the foot of the bed, fumbling and shaking, desperate to cover myself.

“Elliot.” Your voice cracked.