My heart is in civil war. I want to tell him he's wrong and offer him comfort. "Are you going to share those details with me?"

  "That's not my point."

  "It's mine. If you won't even tell me who you lost, why should I tell you anything about how I feel?" I grit my teeth. "Whoever you are, can you bring back the Miles I met last month?"

  "Even that guy would notice how upset you are."

  "Fine. I'm upset. You did your friend duty and asked what was wrong. I did my friend duty and gave you the details. Can we close the book on this conversation?"

  "No."

  "Then take me home."

  He stares at me.

  "Is there a reason why you're cross-examining me?"

  He scoots closer. "It's the decent thing to do."

  "You never struck me as a decent guy."

  He shrugs. "You're lucky I don't offend easily."

  "I can try harder to offend."

  He rests his hand on mine. There's something in his eyes. He's uncertain. It's the first time I've seen Miles anything but confident.

  "It's not something I talk about," I say. "It's not personal."

  He shifts onto his back, his eyes on the stars. "Fine. But I'm still not having sex with you tonight."

  * * *

  Even without Miles's questions, I feel a pull to reveal myself, to share my pain with him. I want to feel the way I do when I listen to his songs, like he understands me and I understand him.

  Why is that intimacy so elusive when we speak?

  I close my eyes and sink into the sand. The gentle breeze sends a chill down my spine. I rub my arms with my palms but it only helps so much.

  Miles wraps his arms around me and pulls my body into his. It's like slipping into my favorite hoodie—warm and comforting.

  Everything that happened with Rosie hurts. Every time I see someone with a drink and a smile, every time I hear her name, every time I find one of her things—it hurts somewhere so deep I can't breathe.

  Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I'm aware of nothing except the waves, the breeze, and Miles's breath. He pulls me closer, wrapping his arm around me and stroking my hair. This isn't the Miles I saw fucking some girl at a party. It's not the guy who teased me about being a virgin. It's the guy who wrote In Pieces, the one who knows what it feels like to lose everything that matters.

  So why can't I talk to him? My lips refuse to move. I think up a million ways to start the conversation. Who did you write In Pieces about? How long ago was it? Does it hurt less? I used to live with Rosie, in a two bedroom. She died finals week. I was so depressed I missed two finals. I had to beg my teachers to let me make them up. My GPA took a hit. It's still not what it needs to be. What did you lose? How far did you fall?

  I want to tell him, to tell someone. I don't talk to anyone about it. Not even Kara.

  Still, my lips refuse to move.

  I try to focus on the stars, something to center me and keep my mind from drifting to places it shouldn't go. It doesn't work. Vivid mental images form. Miles as my doting boyfriend, walking me to class, sharing my sashimi, whispering sweet nothings under the stars.

  I don't want a boyfriend. He doesn't do boyfriend. It should be a perfect arrangement. Only he keeps acting sweet, like he's going to sew the pieces of my broken heart back together.

  I sink into Miles. This time, I soak up every ounce of comfort. Minutes pass. Hours even.

  He taps me on the shoulder and whispers, "are you asleep?"

  "Yes," I murmur.

  He chuckles. "Dreaming about anything good?"

  "You could say that."

  He lifts me, taking me into his arms and carrying me over the sand. My ear is against his chest, and I can hear his steady heartbeat. Whatever this is, I need it tonight.

  He lays me on the passenger seat and presses his lips against my cheek. He looks at me like he knows I'm awake. "I was considering fucking you in that lifeguard stand."

  "You should know that I hate you."

  "I know." He slides into the driver's seat. "My uncle's place is nearby, but he's not around. I'm going to take you there."

  I close my eyes and listen to the air rushing through the moonroof. I feel nothing except the soft vibrations of the car. Then Miles's arms are around me. His hands are pressed into my thigh. My head is against his shoulders. My body fits into his perfectly, even more perfectly than when we have sex.

  We're in a strange house, up the stairs, in a bedroom. It feels like a guest room. It's clean and untouched. The bed is even made.

  Miles lays me down and undresses me. He does it slowly. His fingertips linger on my skin.

  Even though his touch is more sweet than sexual, I burn up with need. My blouse is gone. Then my skirt. I'm still in my bra and panties. That won't do. This feeling, this pain won't do. I need him with me, comforting me, erasing everything else.

  I unhook my bra and slide it off my shoulders. His eyes pass over my body, but he doesn't touch me.

  "Please," I say. "It can be quick."

  He shakes his head. "It won't make you feel better. Trust me. I've tried."

  He's wrong. I push my panties to my ankles and kick them off. Miles's eyes are glued to me. He's under my thumb but only enough to watch. Not enough to give me what I want.

  I spread my legs and sprawl over the bed in an obvious invitation.

  He climbs in next to me, placing his body behind mine. "I'm not fucking you." He slides his arm around my waist. "If you ask again, I'm leaving."

  "Why?"

  "Because if you ask two more times, I'll say yes, and that isn't happening." He runs his fingers through my hair. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

  He's wrong again. I'll feel worse in the morning. Rosie will still be gone. And I'll still be heavy from the loss.

  "If I feel worse, will you fuck me in the morning?" I ask.

  He nods. "Sounds fair."

  I melt around him. He pulls me closer.

  I'm not going to cry on his shoulder. He's not going to fall in love with me.

  But he's in bed with me, holding me.

  It feels so fucking good, him holding me.

  Like we're confidants. Like we're lovers. Like we're going to share every ugly thing in our hearts.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I wake up alone.

  He's gone. The other side of the bed is cold. He's been gone for hours.

  I'm in a stranger's house, in a strange, lifeless room.

  At least the view is amazing—a long stretch of the deep blue Pacific Ocean and the backyard just below the window. It's straight off a postcard. Aqua pool. Lush garden. Bright yellow sun.

  And there's Miles, lying on a lounge chair in his boxers, paperback book in his hands. He's not so much reading as staring off into space with a tortured expression.

  I know almost nothing about the Miles behind the sharp wit. He was trying to pry me apart last night. Maybe it wasn't on purpose, but he wanted more from me. He wanted to hear about Rosie and all the other things that still hurt.

  But why? Either this is casual or it's more. I need to know which it is. I need to know if it's safe to let him in.

  I want to pry him apart, look at all the places he hurts, and put him back together.

  Maybe we can have that intimacy. Maybe this can be more.

  I find the bathroom. There's a box of disposable toothbrushes under the counter. I try to think up an explanation besides a harem of equally disposable women, but I fail.

  The rest of the house is just as beautiful as its surroundings. Everything is clean, bright, and beige. The rooms are huge, the ceilings are high, the furniture is understated. It's like the mansion version of an Apple store. There's something untouchable about this place, like no one lives here. And there's Miles, in the backyard, looking just as untouchable as the clean glass table.

  He stirs as I pull the sliding door open. His eyes find mine.

  There's a weight in my chest. I shouldn't want so badly to ask how he feels, to know how he hurts and what I can do to take it away.

  He pushes off the seat and stretches his arms over his head. His boxers slide down his stomach ever so slightly. They're an inch above his...

  "Good morning." He takes three steps towards me. "You must've slept well. It's almost noon."

  "You should've woken me."

  He slides his hand around my waist. "I did. You had some choice words about it."

  "Like asking what the hell you're doing inviting me for sex then taking me to some strange house to sleep?"

  "Similar, but with a lot more insults and profanity." His lips curl into a smile. "You're cute when you swear."

  How is it possible I don't remember any of this? I must've been half asleep. I only hope I gave Miles the lecture he really deserves. I take a deep breath. "Thank you."

  His eyes find mine. His expression shifts. Not playful or sarcastic but serious. Like he really is worried about me. "Are you okay?"

  Cool, calm, composed. That's what he does, so that's what I'll do. "You wrote that song. You know what it's like to lose everything that matters to you."

  He nods.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Fair point."

  That's it. No admission of feelings. No hurt on his face. There's no sign anyone or anything has ever hurt Miles. He's so utterly unflappable.

  He asked me to talk. I can ask him the same thing.

  I stare into his clear blue eyes. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  He shifts his weight between his legs. "I don't talk about that with anyone."

  The statement is a lead wall. There's no getting past it or around it. This must be how he felt last night—locked out of my head and my heart. It stings in a way it shouldn't. Not given how casual this is supposed to be.

  I take a step towards the kitchen. "Do you have anything with caffeine?"

  He nods to the coffeemaker sitting on the counter inside. "It's a few hours old."

  So he's been up for a few hours. This image flashes through my mind—Miles lying on that lounge chair, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his thoughts drifting away.

  I follow him to the kitchen and fix a cup of coffee.

  The beverage does nothing to chase away the uneasy feeling in my gut. I want to know Miles's thoughts but that's not part of our arrangement.

  He nudges me with his shoulder. "You're more obvious than you think you are, Meg."

  He brushes his hand over my lower back. Damn, I want that hand on me.

  I try to play it cool. Focus on my coffee. Sit at the perfect kitchen table. Ignore the fact that Miles is wearing boxers. He could be doing it to seduce me or to drive me mad.

  I smile and sip my drink. I am the epitome of cool. I could not be more cool.

  He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. "Scrambled okay?"

  "That's fine."

  He takes a perfect white bowl from a cabinet, cracks half a dozen perfect white eggs, and stirs with a perfect white whisk.

  His back is to me. His muscles are ever so slightly flexed. Those are strong shoulders and lats. He must do a lot more to work out than run.

  My mind flashes with another set of images. These are more appealing. Miles in all sorts of compromising positions with me, his muscles flexed, his breath strained.

  Miles turns off the stove and scoops the eggs onto two perfect white plates and sets them on the table. They're good—fluffy and cooked just right. Better than anything I can cook.

  We eat in silence. Tension hangs over the table. Does he expect me to explain what happened last night? I want to, but only if he'll let me in too. Only if we'll be more than fuck buddies.

  I finish my last bite and set my fork next to my plate. "Thanks for breakfast."

  "Are you still hungry?"

  "I have food at home."

  Miles makes a show of pushing out of his seat slowly. The sunlight falls over his body just so. His torso looks even more defined. His back looks stronger.

  Somehow, he looks even more attractive.

  Miles pulls a carton of strawberries from the fridge, rinses them in a perfect white colander, and pours them onto an equally perfect white plate. "I can't let you go home until I'm done with you."

  I lick my lips. He watches me, grinning.

  Ahem. "Done how?"

  "Last time I went for four, but I do like to break records."

  That heat is back. This time, I do nothing to fight it. My skin tingles, desperate for his touch.

  His eyes pass over my body. There's nothing I can do to hide my reaction now. I want him and badly.

  I take one of the strawberries and press it to my lips. The flesh is soft and sweet. There's some way I'm supposed to react here, but I don't know what it is.

  Miles laughs. "You're nervous again. It's cute."

  I eat the damn strawberry. So much for matching his advanced-level seduction. "That's one opinion on the matter."

  He slides his tongue over the tip of a berry and sucks on it like it's some part of me.

  He wants to break a record. That means five orgasms. He must mean today. Five orgasms in one screw would kill me.

  He moves closer, undoes my top button, presses his lips against my neck. "You were begging me last night."

  "Not begging."

  He undoes another button, and the blouse flops open. He slides his fingers over the edges of my bra. "You were desperate."

  I dig my nails into my thighs. "Not entirely."

  "It took everything I had to turn you down." He sinks his teeth into my neck and slides his hand inside my bra.

  "Why did you?"

  "I don't want you thinking about anything else when I touch you." He slides his fingertips over my nipple.

  "I won't. I couldn't. I'm not even sure what day it is."

  His breath gets heavy. He undoes the rest of the buttons and pushes the blouse off my shoulders. "I need to hear you come again."

  "Okay."

  He laughs, his voice sincere. "You really are adorable."

  "No."

  "Would you prefer sexy as all hell?" He does away with my bra.

  I gasp as he cups my breasts.

  "Yes." I press my eyelids together. We're talking about something, but it seems irrelevant. I don't care what he calls me as long as he keeps touching me.

  "This will be easier on the couch."

  "Right." I toss my clothes aside and follow him.

  His eyes pass over my body. "Definitely sexy as all hell."

  I kick off my skirt.

  Miles's hands slide over my hips, under the sides of my panties. He digs his fingertips into my skin and presses his body against mine one part at a time--his hips, his stomach, his chest, his mouth.

  He tastes like strawberries.

  I can feel his erection through his boxers. I want so badly to wrap my hands around it, to prove I really am sexy as all hell.

  I dig my hands into his hair like I'm holding on for dear life. His kiss is intense. It engulfs me.

  He grabs my hips and scoops me onto the couch. I'm flat on my back, one leg hanging over the side of the couch, the other pressed against the cushion. Miles stands above me, light falling over every perfect inch of his body.

  He's stares at me, into me, through me. It doesn't feel casual, but then again, what could possibly be casual about him being inside me?

  He moves onto the couch, planting his body on top of mine. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer. Damn, that feels good.

  His fingertips skim my sides, my stomach, my chest. His hands feel good on my skin. He should never be allowed to do anything with his hands except touch me.

  I arch my back, straining to feel his cock against my sex. Underwear is in the way, but I can feel him through the thin cotton fabric. God, he feels good.

  His lips find mine. His kiss is softer. He's slowing down.

  Like hell. I slide my tongue into his mouth and swirl it around his. His body shifts. I rock my hips, grinding my crotch against his. The friction sends waves of pleasure through me.

  He groans. His lips go to my neck. My collarbone. Then they're on my nipple, sucking on it like it's his plaything. I'm his plaything. He can do whatever he wants to me as long as he doesn't stop.

  His fingers brush against my thigh, closer, and closer, and closer. He runs them against my clit, over my panties. "I'm going to eat you out. Have you done that before?"

  "No," I breathe. "But I don't want you to go easy on me."

  "Couldn't even if I wanted to."

  He presses his lips into my stomach. My belly button. My inner thigh.

  He tugs my panties all the way to my feet.

  Then his mouth is on me. It's different than his hands. Softer. Wetter.

  I lean my head back and surrender to the sensation. His tongue hits every nerve ending I have. Pleasure surges through my body, collecting in my sex. I'm close already.

  "Miles," I groan. I dig my hands into his hair.

  He licks me again, and again. I rock my hips in an attempt to contain the sensation. It's intense, way more intense than sex.

  I'm light. I'm free. I'm flying. Damn, I'm flying.

  Almost.

  One more lick, and I go over the edge. It's fucking amazing. Every bit of tension in my body releases. A wave of ecstasy washes over me.

  I groan his name again and again.

  "Mhmm." He pins me to the couch, his hands firm against my hips.

  He's still going. His tongue slides from my sex to my clit. Around my outer lips. He moves with long, slow strokes. With fast, hard ones. Front to back, side to side, zig zag.

  Pleasure builds. It's more intense. Almost too intense.

  I throw my head back and dig my nails into his shoulders. Still, it's intense.

  With the next flick of his tongue, an orgasm crashes over me. I scream his name as I come.

  The world is beautiful. It's hard to believe that anything has ever hurt before.

  I collapse on the couch, soaking in every drop of pleasure.

  Miles presses himself up. He runs his fingertips over my thighs, an invitation to continue.

  I nod a yes.

  He pulls me off the couch. I'm not sure where we're going, only that I want to be there, with him, making him feel as good as I do.

  We go up the stairs, to the door at the end of the hallway. It's a massive bathroom with a huge shower.

 

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