Double touché. This is turning out to be more painful than I thought, but I guess I deserve this. "No."

"What do you want?"

I lift up my iPod with one hand and flash him an apologetic grin. "To educate you about good music. You badmouthing Neck Deep was seriously out of line, and I won't take this kind of attitude from a guy who listens to Soulja Boy."

And that's all it takes for him to fight that cute grin of his. Heart starts beating normally again.

"Unless you have other plans, of course," I say.

"My plans can wait." He doesn't budge from the door, though. I'm standing on the threshold, peeking inside, hoping that he'll get the hint.

"Can I come in?"

He clears the path for me. Was he just staring at me without talking or moving for ten seconds straight?

"Mi casa, es su casa, Barbie. Just don’t bring any boys here if you want them to get outta here in one piece.”

I order pizza while he eats steamed broccoli and salmon. I sit on his floor and browse through my YouTube playlists on his laptop. We've been doing this for nearly two hours, and so far, he hasn't kicked me out yet, even when I played him the really abstract stuff no one seems to like but me. Now I ease back into familiar territories to wrap up the session.

"And that was ‘Jumpers’ by Sleater-Kinney." I look up from the screen, awaiting his verdict.

He taps his chin with his finger, hmmphing with one arched brow. "Play the local band again, the one from Sacramento. I dig their stuff."

"‘My Soul is Empty and Full of White Girls’ by Slaves." I double click on the song. "Good choice."

"So you're serious about your music, then." He stands up, sauntering across the room to sit beside me after keeping his distance, both physically and mentally, for the past two hours. I immediately feel a flush of heat. Hot-Guy-Smell alert. Hormones are waking up from their week-long hibernation.

"Yeah, it's a huge thing for me. I listen to podcasts, follow music blogs, go to shitload of gigs, then of course there's the Warped tours every summer. I mean, Coachella is a freaking joke, you know..."

Tyler shifts closer to me, our knees almost touching. He reaches over, brushing a lock of hair from my collarbone, and by the intensity in his dark eyes, I gather we're done talking about music.

"What are you doing to me, Blaire?" His voice is gruff and throaty.

"I'm not sure, but you did it first to me." I’m unable to swallow the lump in my throat. "Why me?" I hear myself asking, and hate myself for it too, because why the hell not, you know? "It doesn't look like you're short on groupies and I don't exactly make things easy for you."

"I dig your cool." He leans forward, his lips almost touching mine, his breath on my skin.

Damn, I've missed those lips. My tummy dips.

"There's something real and unapologetic about you,” he says. “You're funny and engaging. In other words, you have a fully human range. Sure, a hot girl can keep me busy for an hour. You? I want more of what you got. I'm not sure what exactly, but a whole lot more than just an hour of your time."

I let out a soft, unintentional moan when his unbelievably rough palm cups my cheek. Blood roars through my veins when his lips touch mine. This time, Ty shows zero patience and I have zero doubts. After a week of withdrawal symptoms, I just want to eat his face. We kiss passionately, gotta-have-you-now kisses while his hands move to the small of my back, pressing me harder against him.

I arch my back, my hips searching for his groin until they find what they were looking for. Just the thought of me being responsible for his hard-on makes my head spin. I fist his black tee until my knuckles go white and he takes the hint. Ty climbs on top of me, his legs straddling my waist and pinning me to his floor. And I'm gone. Completely, and utterly gone while our bodies grind together in perfect harmony.

I'm done resisting. I want this. Want him.

His hand cups my right boob and I immediately stiffen involuntarily. Cupping leads to touching other body parts, and I'm afraid I'll disappoint him if he finds out how unbelievably uneducated I am in bed.

"Is this okay?" He unglues his mouth from mine. It's ripping me apart emotionally, knowing that he really cares, that he notices every tiny reaction I have to him.

I nod, pressing my lips to his tattooed neck, and he groans his delight. His hand quickly disappears under my shirt and underneath my bra. He's tugging and teasing my nipple. This time he doesn't ask for permission. I think it's pretty clear that I'm minutes away from coming just from feeling his bulge against my groin.

In the middle of this make-out session, I feel his thumb stroking my cheekbone intimately. He pulls away, catching my eyes while still on top of me. He leans on his elbows, careful not to crush me under his weight. I'm panting like crazy, while his athletic stamina allows him to stay collected and so much cooler than me in this situation.

"No more running, got it?"

I nod, breathless.

"No more running."

After we dry hump on the floor like two teenagers, he somehow convinces me to watch Rocky with him. Maybe it's because he let me talk about music for hours, because I feel privileged to return a favor. But something changes in me. I suddenly become more self-aware than I ever was around a guy. I'm super careful not to breath too loud, and I wonder if I still smell like citrus and coconut from the shower I took before getting here and what my hair looks like.