Dean is bad for me. I’ve known that from the beginning. And yet my body craves him like fresh oxygen. I’m already missing the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands on my flesh. “You hurt me, Dean,” I tell him quietly. “You really hurt me.” “I know,” he says. “And . . .” He swallows, as if he’s choking on something. “And I’m sorry,” he says in a strangled tone. I almost want to laugh. It sounds like he’s never apologized in his life.
