After three minutes of giving directions, Kara rests her head against the backseat door and falls asleep.

I'm as good as alone with Miles.

I try to think up small talk, but nothing comes to me. So much for that. I should probably give directions. "You want the Wilshire exit off the 405."

"Mhmmm." He turns to me for a moment then his eyes are on the road. "Should be twenty minutes."

"Right."

"Anything else you want to discuss?" he teases.

I clear my throat. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Yes you are."

I need to set the record straight here. "Kara is my closest friend. I don't know how close you and Drew are or how long you'll be in Los Angeles, but I figure you and I are mutual friends… so how about we agree to never discuss this again?"

A smug smile spreads across his face. "I can't agree to that."

"Why not?"

"You're too cute when you blush."

"I'm not cute." I bite my tongue so I don't snap. Who the hell does he think he is calling me cute? Deep breath. I can be as cool and aloof as he is. "Let's pretend it never happened."

"If it bothers you that much." He stops at a red light. "But it's not a big deal. Nothing you haven't done before."

Right. Because I'm a twenty-one-year-old college senior. And no normal college senior is quite so sexually inexperienced.

"Of course," I say.

A smug smile spreads over his face. His eyes fill with disbelief.

I try my most confident voice. "I've had boyfriends." I hate that look. I'm not an innocent flower. "We did all sorts of stuff." In high school, above the waist, but he doesn't need to know that.

"There's no shame in lacking sexual experience. In being a virgin even."

"I know, but I'm not."

He cocks a brow.

"It's really none of your business."

The light turns green. Miles steps on the gas. Changes gears until he's going way over the speed limit. "What's your favorite sexual position?"

"I'd rather not discuss that with a stranger."

"What happened to us being mutual friends?"

A compelling point. I shrug like I'm as unaffected as he is. "Um… missionary."

He laughs, not at all buying my answer. "Second favorite?"

I try to think up something less obvious than missionary but I draw a blank. What the hell? My brain has no problem imagining me and Miles in the throes of passion—him pressing me against the wall, me climbing onto him in the driver's seat, the two of us tangled together on his bed—but it is utterly unable to articular any words.

He stops short at a yellow light. "I can show you a few good ones."

I take a deep breath so I won't turn the color of a tomato. "Excuse me?"

His eyes find mine. His expression is the epitome of confidence. "You do want to fuck me."

"I do not."

He shakes his head. "You've been picturing me naked all night."

"Because I saw you naked. I couldn't help it."

"Mhmm." The light turns green and he slams on the gas. He turns the corner and speeds onto the freeway on-ramp. "And now you're thinking about it."

"I'm not."

"I'm better than whatever you're imagining."

"Did you even know that girl's name?"

"Yeah."

I'm not convinced. "What was it?"

"Stephanie. Pretty sure it was Stephanie." He shrugs. "It's just sex. You'd know if you—"

"My sex life is none of your business."

"Don't have to be defensive about it. Nothing wrong with being a virgin."

I cross my legs. I'm sure Miles never has to be defensive about his sex life. Nobody ever thinks he's uncool or uptight. Nobody looks at him like he's a buzzkill.

He's a stud.

Hell, he's a rising rock star.

I want to explain it, to justify my frustration, but he's still aloof as hell and I'm still rattled. Why bother?

Social lives are overrated.

The weight of the silence spreads through the car. It's too much. I have to turn the radio on. It's tuned to KROQ and, God help me, the station is playing In Pieces.

The vocals are a low moan, a sound meant to express an extreme outpouring of emotion. I can't get past the moan. Is that what Miles sounds like when he's mid orgasm?

I scramble to change the station. Rock. That won't do. I find the oldies station. It's sure to be free of Miles's voice.

He laughs. "You're cute when you're nervous."

I fold my arms over my chest. "Do you have a problem with oldies?"

"That's why you changed the station, just hoping to hear Build Me Up Buttercup?"

"No, I was hoping for Happy Together."

He smiles and looks at me. "You want your first time to be good?"

"I'm not…"

"I'm more than happy to oblige."

What the hell? Is he serious? I take a deep breath. I don't like how rattled I feel. I need it to stop. "I don't need your pity sex."

He raises a brow. "There'd be no pity about it. I want to fuck you, too."

"There's no 'too.' I don't want to… I don't date."

"It's just sex. Might let you buy me breakfast in the morning, but it's not a date."

My mind goes blank. He's direct and confident. He knows exactly what he wants and he just goes for it.

How the hell does he do that?

Words escape me. Talking is overrated.

I turn up the radio, settle into my seat, and watch the sky whiz by outside the windows.

It feels like an eternity passes, but finally we arrive at Kara's apartment.

Miles gets out of the car but stays out of earshot. I walk Kara up the stone staircase and fish through her purse for her keys.

She looks at me with concern. "Thanks for coming out, but Meg—"

"Yeah?"

Her gaze drifts to Miles leaning against the car. "Be careful. Miles is a total whore."

"Drink some water."

She steps into her apartment. "He was flirting with you."

"You were listening?"

She smiles deviously, clearly not as drunk as she let on. "I worry about you. Be careful, okay?"

I nod.

I must look more confident than I feel, because she closes the door without another word.

This night needs to end. Now. I rush down the steps, one at a time. Then the ground. Only it's not the ground. There's another step.

Fuck. I try to steady myself. It doesn't work.

I go down, landing on my hands and knees.

Ow. My wrists are okay but my knee is screaming.

"Hey." Miles’s voice is close.

He’s a mere foot away. How did he get here so fast?

He kneels next to me. "You mind?"

"I'm fine. I can clean up at home."

"Let me see."

"I don't need your help."

"You're bleeding."

Dammit. He's right. My knee is scraped and bleeding.

His eyes find mine. He raises a brow as if to ask permission. This time, I nod.

Miles's fingers skim my skin as he inspects my wrists. Then they're on the tops of my knees. The gentle touch sends heat flooding through my body.

I wasn't lying to Miles. I don't date. Everything in my life is arranged around getting into medical school. Between studying and my part-time job, I have barely any time and energy. It's hard enough keeping my life on track without adding a boyfriend to the mix.

I've never met a guy who seemed worth the trouble. I've certainly never had a guy's touch stir this kind of desire.

I want those hands under my clothes.

My heart thuds against my chest. It's terrifying how badly I want those hands under my clothes.

Miles looks up at me. "This is a bad scrape. You have a first aid kit?"

"I can take care of it."

"I bruised plenty of knuckles in my day. I'm bandaging that. Either we do it at your apartment, or we go to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy."

Going back to my place will be faster. I nod fine and follow him to the car.

He slides into the driver's seat. "Where do you live?"

"Sawtelle and Idaho. The complex on the left."

He drives without any need for directions. After a few quick turns, we pull into the garage. But the gate to the underground garage is closed. Damn. The only way to unlock it is by inputting the code and my landlord can't stand tenants giving it out to strangers.

That means I have to lean over Miles to do this.

I motion to the window. "You mind?"

He nods and rolls the window down.

Here goes nothing. I undo my seatbelt and lean over him, planting one hand on the windowsill. It brings my body over his, my chest over his mouth. His soft, slow exhale sends shivers down my spine.

His lips are inches from my chest. I want those inches gone, want my blouse and bra gone. Want his mouth on my skin.

I've never felt like that before.

Ever.

I input the code as quickly as possible. There. The garage door opens. I slide back into my seat and direct him to my open parking spot.

Now there's nothing left to do but lead him to my apartment.

Just me and the rock star playboy, alone in my apartment.

What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

Clothes cover the already limited floor space of my tiny studio. The desk is littered with papers and notecards. The kitchenette is no better.

Damn, it looks like a slob lives here. I've been lax about cleaning, about taking care of myself, about everything, really. Ever since Rosie… it's hard to do anything.

I never want anything.

Only I want Miles.

I want him in my bed.

Want us out of these stupid clothes.

I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off. Figures I want something bad for me. It's fitting, really. If I'm not careful, I'll fall down the same rabbit hole that destroyed her.

I kick a pair of underwear out of view and take a seat on the bed.

Miles is close.

There are only two feet between the bed and the wall. There's nowhere else for him to be. The reasonable explanation does nothing to calm my racing heart.

Miles scans the walls, taking in the movie posters breathing life into the otherwise drab room—the Star Wars original trilogy, Jurassic Park, The Matrix, Dark City, and The Terminator.

His lips curl into a smile. "I like your décor."

"I'm sure you've seen plenty of women's apartments with much better décor."

"I still like yours." He sits me on the bed. "First aid kit?"

I point him to the bathroom. He disappears for a moment and returns with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bag of cotton balls, and a wide bandage. I don't remember buying any of this. Must have been Rosie's.

I guess she doesn't need them anymore.

"You don't have any antibacterial cream?" he asks.

"Only have the kit."

"Get the cream for next time." He uncaps the rubbing alcohol, presses the cotton ball over it, and tilts the bottle. His eyes find mine. "This will sting."

Miles drops to his knees, kneeling in front of me like he's about to pull off my panties and plant his face between my thighs.

The beautiful mental image dies the moment he presses the cotton ball to my skin. Ow. Ow. Ow. It doesn't just sting. It burns like hell.

"Fuck," I mutter.

"Here." He presses his lips together and blows cool air over the wound.

It lessens the sting but it sets the rest of my body on fire. He pats my skin dry and applies a bandage. There. Fixed. We're done.

Only he's still here, still between my legs.

He looks up at me. His fingertips trail along the inside of my calf as he pulls his hands back to his sides. "Better?"

"I could have handled that." I press my knees together. I want him. I can't deal with that. I need to tell him to leave. "But yes. Thanks."

"My pleasure."

He's still here. I'm still on my bed. It would be easy to remind him of his offer.

Maybe I can be casual and aloof too. Maybe sex is the secret to not feeling like my heart weighs a thousand pounds.

Or maybe I'll go down the same path my sister did.

I clear my throat. "It's getting late. I should go to bed."

"Sure." He pushes himself up to his feet. He plops on the bed next to me, his jean-clad thigh pressed against my bare skin. "You have a cell phone?"

My hands share none of my caution. They dig into my purse and offer him my cell.

He taps the screen for a moment and hands it back. There he is, in my phone: Miles Webb. I have his number, his email, his address even.

He stares at me like he's thinking about how easy it would be to pin me to the bed and pull my panties to my knees.

Or maybe I'm projecting.

His lips curl into a smile. "Let me know if you need anything."

"What would I need?"

"To satisfy your curiosity."

Time to put an end to this flirtation. I clear my throat and throw my shoulders back. I can do confidence too. "Listen, Miles. I'm sure you're a great guy in a lot of ways, and I'm sure I'll see you again, what with our mutual best friends."

"True." His voice is calm, totally unfazed.

"But I'd appreciate it if you'd stop flirting with me."

He nods. "If you stop staring at me like you're thinking about what you want to do to me."

I know what I want to do to him. I want to tell him to go screw himself. I fire up an insult and turn to face Miles. But when our eyes connect, my mouth goes sticky.

He chuckles. "That look, right now, you're thinking about fucking me."

"You're mistaken."

"No, I'm not." He stares into my eyes. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. If you're not interested, stop undressing me with your eyes, and I'll stop flirting."

I go to stammer an objection but I've got nothing. Are people really this direct? It's unnerving.

An electric current courses through my body, settling between my legs.

What would his hands feel like farther up my thighs? Under my skirt? Under my panties? My body is begging me to find out.

"I won't stare." I press my palms together, but I'm not at all convincing. I'm staring right now. "I'll work on it."

He pushes himself to his feet. "I really hope you don't."

I'm not interested. I open my mouth to say the words. Nothing. I am interested. I'm unbearably interested.

Shit. I have to say something. "Have a safe ride home."

His lips curl into a cocky smile. "Sweet dreams."

He nods goodbye on his way out the door.

Damn, that was close.

I collapse on the bed. My heart is pounding against my chest. My lungs are totally void of oxygen.

Miles Webb, the gorgeous rock star, singer of the band poised to be the next big thing, wants me. He could have any buxom actress or model he wants, and he wants me. Flat-chested, gawky, wallflower me.