Make Me Bad(49)

As to my initial reservations about whether or not I’m the right man for her…well, maybe I’m selfish enough not to care about that anymore. Madison said she wants a nice guy, but she’s never been stripped down…seduced…desired. How does she know what she wants?

Maybe I’ll just have to show her.





Later that night, I’m standing in front of her house with a rock in my hand. I honestly can’t believe I’m doing this. Her dad could still be awake. A neighbor could spot me. I could misjudge my strength and shatter the glass.

A car turns the corner and I hit the deck, hiding behind the bushes until their taillights fade. This is ridiculous. If Madison lived on her own, I wouldn’t feel like a teenager right now. As it is, I could just call her and tell her to come outside, but this feels like it fits better with her plan. She wants me to make her bad. What’s worse than sneaking out of your parents’ house?

I push back up to my feet and cup my hands around my mouth.

“Madison,” I hiss, careful not to project too much.

Nothing.

Another car. Another few minutes hidden in the bushes. A wandering raccoon spots me and stares, judging.

I shoo it away and stand back up.

“Madison!” I shout, this time a little louder, and then I follow it up with a carefully tossed rock. I flinch, waiting for glass to break, but it pings right off. Such skill. Such mastery. I look back to see if the raccoon was watching.

A noise catches my attention overhead and I glance up to see her window slide open. A moment later, Madison’s head pops out.

“Ben?” she whisper-shouts. “What the hell are you doing? You’re crushing my dad’s azaleas.”

Whatever. Just one more reason for him to hate me.

I wave her down. “C’mon. You’re sneaking out.”

She laughs and then slaps a hand over her mouth, cautious of the noise. We both stay silent, waiting. A moment later, the house is still quiet. We didn’t wake her dad up. Yet.

“My dad only went to bed a few minutes ago,” she explains.

“So just be extra quiet when you climb down.”

“Are you serious right now? I’m not sure I can handle another injury to the head. Why don’t I just sneak out the front door?”

Sure, she could tiptoe downstairs and walk through the front door, but this night is not about playing it safe. Her window opens to a slanted roof. She can easily step out and then walk to the edge and lower herself down. I’ll be underneath her, prepared to ease her fall.

Of course, when I explain this to her, she doesn’t seem all that convinced.

I throw my hands up in defeat. “Do you want to be bad or not?”

She fists her hands then walks away from the window, and I think she’s gone for good. I’ll be standing out here alone all night. That raccoon’s going to get the last laugh.

Then her head pops out a second later and she groans. “Okay I’ll do it! Just let me change!”

“No need. Where we’re going, it won’t matter.”

I don’t hear the things she grumbles under her breath as she checks to make sure her dad is still asleep. A minute later, something hard falls out of the window and lands in the bushes.

“Oops! Sorry,” she cries. “I meant to say heads up.”

It must have been her phone. We’ll get it later.

Her slender leg peeks out of the window and then she hoists herself up and over the ledge. Okay, maybe in hindsight, she could have worn something a little more practical than a flimsy nightgown. Her hair isn’t even tied up. The long strands are blowing in every direction. She wraps her arms around her midsection and squeezes. It’s not that cold, but then I’m wearing jeans and a jacket.

She stands up there gazing down at me. I shouldn’t be thinking she’s beautiful, but Madison has a way of looking incredible in the least convenient moments.

Her nightgown cuts off at mid-thigh. From where I stand, I have a dangerously tempting view. I force myself to be a gentleman as I tell her what I want her to do.

“Lower yourself down slowly and by the time you’re hanging, I should be able to reach you. Got it?”

“Okay. I trust you, but I’m just wondering if I should go back in for some ice packs before we continue.”

“Madison,” I admonish. “C’mon, I’ve got you. I swear.”

She does exactly as I say and soon enough, her calf is within reach. I lock my hand around it and like the good guy I’m pretending to be, I don’t notice how silky smooth it is.

“Keep going. I can almost reach your thigh.”

“Don’t look up my dress!” she hisses.

“I’m not,” I insist, sounding deeply affronted.

But just to be clear, she’s wearing panties with a flower print on them—pink, if I’m not mistaken.

“Okay, lower yourself down a little more.”

My other hand skims up her thigh. This is the most I’ve touched her. Sure, there’ve been a few fleeting moments like at the tattoo shop and diner, but normally we’re on a strictly need-to-touch basis. Incidents include a game of leapfrog during story time (Her hands were on my shoulders. Her butt grazed my forehead as she jumped over me. Incidentally, I love that game now), and last week, I dragged her away from the library for lunch in the middle of the week. After our meals arrived, we both reached for the ketchup bottle at the same time. Our fingers accidentally brushed and you would have thought I’d just slid my hand into her panties. She stumbled over her words. I jerked the bottle away and then thrust it toward her.