Page 75 of Mad Girl

“Everything,” he’d whispered.

I poked him in the shoulder. “Those college jitters are hitting you pretty hard, huh?”

“I don’t want to grow up,” he’d said—no, whined. Exactly like a child.

Laughing, I’d kissed the top of his head. “You’re drunk. Go to bed.”

“I am in bed.”

“To your bed.”

He’d nuzzled his face against my breast, the stubble on his cheek pricking my skin through the flimsy fabric of my camisole. “Let me stay. Let me stay here forever.”

So I did. Within minutes, he’d fallen asleep, and when I finished reading, I’d curled my body against his.

The memory of that night leapt to mind while I deliberated and freaked out and pressed two fingers to my lips, still stinging and swollen from his kiss. Michael’s in love with me.

Michael, who let me drag him out of bed to watch the snow fall. Who gave me those pictures of my mom for Christmas because he knew how much they’d mean to me. Who knew my darkest secrets and loved me, anyway. Who always—always—found it in his heart to forgive me.

I slipped off my sandals, smoothed down the skirt of Tinsley’s dress, and returned to his room. I found him sitting on the edge of his bed with his head between his hands, clearly devastated. And it broke my heart.

He glanced up when I stopped between his legs. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forget I ever said anything. It⁠—”

“Shut up.” I raked my fingers through his hair and kissed him again, long and hard.

A little while later, we drifted off to sleep, fully clothed, Michael’s fingers laced through mine.

The following day, wispy clouds stretched thin across the sky, a gentle breeze coming off the ocean, the water calm, gently lapping at the shore. We sunbathed on our beach towels, facing each other, my green-striped towel overlapping Michael’s light blue one on the sand.

“I want to ask you something,” I said.

“Okay.” His eyes held mine as he stroked my braid.

“When Sienna accused me of being with you that time, she asked to see my shoulder. What was that about?”

Michael dropped his gaze. “She thought you might have a bite mark there.”

“A bite mark? Why?”

“I…have this thing about biting,” he said, slow to lift his gaze back to mine.

“Biting.” My chest crackled at the thought.

“Yeah. It’s something I do when I’m…” He trailed off.

“Hooking up with someone?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

“Who else knows about this biting habit of yours?” I asked.

“Casey.”

“How?” It came out hard—like an accusation. I didn’t think Michael liked guys, but I didn’t know he liked to bite people, either.

“Sienna. She showed him the marks on her shoulder sometimes. We joked about it.”

My stomach unclenched. “Have you always done it?”