Page 76 of Mad Girl

“I’ve bitten every girlfriend I’ve ever had—after asking for their consent, of course.”

“It feels weird that I didn’t already know this about you,” I said, feeling a strange mixture of excitement and irritation. “I thought we knew everything about each other.”

“But it’s okay if we don’t, you know? That just means there’s more to learn.” When I didn’t say anything, he picked up my hand, brushing his thumb over the ring. Tilting it back and forth, he watched the center stone catch the light. “This is new. It matches your eyes. Where’d you get it?”

“Casey. He gave it to me for my birthday.”

Michael stared at the ring, lost in thought.

“It’s beautiful, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, dropping my hand. “Beautiful.”

I pushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “I’m glad you got to hang out with him this summer.”

“Me, too,” he said, sweeping his fingers up my arm.

The new way he touched me felt weird and exhilarating at the same time. I nearly swatted him away a couple of times before reminding myself I liked it.

“Hey. Do you think your mom and my dad have ever hooked up?”

Michael pulled a face. “I try not to think about my mom hooking up with my dad—let alone yours.” He thought for a minute. “Besides, I can’t see them hurting my dad like that.”

“I don’t mean now—when they were our age. The way they tell it, your parents were on and off a lot. So maybe at one point Libby and my dad were together. Before my mom came along, that is.”

“I don’t know,” Michael said, trailing his fingers down my thigh.

“You’ve never noticed how close they are? Libby’s always laying her head on my dad’s shoulder. He gave her those crystal candlesticks this summer—just because. And he’s the only one who calls her Lib. It makes me think they know each other intimately somehow.”

“Maybe,” Michael agreed. “But if they have hooked up before? I don’t care to know about it.”

Michael’s fingers drifted to the birthmark at my bikini line. He traced it so lightly I squirmed on my towel.

I pushed his hand away. “Stop that.”

“Why?” he asked, gaze burning hot.

“It tickles.”

He pulled my face close. Against my lips, he whispered, “I’ve been dying to trace you there for years.”

My pulse quickened as I pushed him onto his back and deepened the kiss, eliciting a groan that rumbled in his chest. Then I ripped my lips from his and said, “Race you to the pool.”

The next few days were more of the same. Movies turned on and forgotten, his mouth on mine. Kisses stolen in the pool house, heat coming off his skin. The zipper on my rash guard pulled down, his teeth grazing my bare shoulder. Conversations had in the dark, his woodsy scent all around me, both of us teasing and testing, but never crossing that line.

I kept us from crossing that line.

I needed a drink of water, or another dip in the pool, or to sleep in my own bed.

It didn’t make sense. With Willoughby, I’d been ready—to give it up and get it over with—but with Michael, it was different. With Michael, it would mean more, and I didn’t think I deserved more. Not with him.

But the biting intrigued me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Bite me,” I whispered one night as he hovered above me, propped up on one elbow. I almost laughed, because it sounded so ridiculous.

But his breathing slowed.

His teeth dragged over his bottom lip.