I roll over until I’m on my other side, my face a breath from his on the pillow. The tease of my shirt and the blankets make my breasts ache for his touch. I’m claimed by raging desire, and sleep just isn’t going to happen.

“I can’t sleep. I’m too restless,” I whisper. “Don’t you want to…?” I can’t finish the thought.

He gently strokes my hair, and those worldly black eyes harshly fix on my face. “It’s being fucked up and the aftereffects of being on stage. The combination makes it an adrenaline rush. You get off stage and the first thing you want to do is fuck someone. It’s just the adrenaline rush. It goes away. Go to sleep.”

“I’m too wired. I feel like I could crawl out of my skin.”

His features look strained. “Chrissie, go to sleep.”

I stare up at him. “But I want to. I really, really want to with you.”

I move into him, my lips on his neck and my hands clumsily fumble for the fastening of his pants. His breathing grows deep and ragged. He stops my hands.

“Behave, Chrissie.”

He is gently stroking my flesh. My breathing won’t calm. My body is ruthlessly demanding more and he thinks I’m going to sleep. My fingers search for the buttons on his shirt. My lips find the warm flesh of his jaw. My pelvis lifts upward into him. The taste of him runs wildly through my veins. I want him and there is no power on earth that could make me stop this…I want him…I want him…

Chapter Seven

I come awake slowly and open my eyes to streams of parallel ribbons of sunshine peeking through the half-open slats of the shutters. I am comfortable and warm in bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.

I shift my head and my hair falls across my face. Unfocused moments slip by. It is my room, I know that. It is bright and airy and the walls are covered with that hideous pink and white striped wallpaper with the flowered border that I picked out when I was seven.

There is an arm carelessly flung over my hip, gentle yet holding. There is a dark tattoo on the forearm. The fingers are long.

All at once, like a door flying open, my sluggish brain jerks into overdrive and I know two things: I am nude beneath the covers, and that arm and warm body behind me belongs to Alan Manzone.

Oh god, what the hell did I do last night? There are memories, but they are foggy. Was I drunk? I must have been, but I don’t feel hung over. I don’t feel wretched like I did after clubbing with Rene. How much of what I remember is real? Did I really go to CBGB’s? Did I really run into Vince Carroll? Did I sing on stage? Did Alan really dump Nia and beat up Vince Carroll?

Snippets of the night come to me in greater clarity. I couldn’t possibly have said the things I remember saying to him last night! I couldn’t possibly have all but attacked him sexually!

I cautiously lift the blanket just to confirm that I’m really nude. No, no, no. I don’t know what’s wrong with my memory. But that could not have possibly happened. It was a dream. A drunken dream. Only I don’t feel like I’ve been drunk. I feel funny. Spacey.

I cringe. More disjointed minutes come to me. There is a flash in my memory of Alan’s face as he undressed me: angry and worried. Why was he angry? Why was he worried? The last thing I remember is being naked in bed and then nothing. I blush. Did we make love? I don’t think we did. I don’t feel like we did. Wouldn’t I feel it? I frantically look at him. He’s still dressed. My memory stirs. He didn’t want to make love to me. He said no. I offered and he said no.

I want to die! I would climb from the bed, but I can’t. Even if I could slip free of his arm, I’m naked and there doesn’t look to be any clothes handy. In slow, careful movements so as not to disturb him, I gently turn beneath his bicep so I can see him. I’m surprised he’s still in bed with me, though technically not, just lying atop it.

Why is he still here? Shouldn’t he have slipped out the door long before this? Isn’t that what most guys do? Sneak out before morning? At least that’s what Rene says, and she would know. It would have been better for me if he’d made an escape, because I really don’t know how I’m going to keep from making a fool of myself when he wakes up. How do you face a guy in the morning after he didn’t want to have sex with you?

I need to talk to Rene. I wish I could get out of the bed. I wish he’d just screwed me last night while I was crazy, so I could just be done with my virginity. It wouldn’t make this morning any more nerve-rackingly awful.

The phone rings and I tense. I peek back over my shoulder to find Alan awake. He looks at me, and it’s almost as though he’s studying my face, looking for something, and then feels relieved he doesn’t find it. His eyes become soft, his expression gentle.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“It could be Jack.” He says it nonchalantly.

Does he really expect me to take a call from my father while lying nude in bed with him? OK, technically not in bed with him, but my frazzled nerves don’t seem to draw a distinction.

The phone stops ringing. Thank god.

“How do you feel? Any dizziness? Are you sick?”

What kind of questions are those? Say something, Chrissie. You can’t just stare at him. “I’m OK.”

He looks relieved and smiles. Why does he look relieved?

He brushes back his tousled waves. “Are you hungry?”

What are we playing? Twenty questions? Why do I feel like the questions are more than just questions? Like I’m at the doctor’s office or something…how are you feeling, Chrissie? Any shortness of breath? Or just a fever today…Jeez, enough with the third degree. Am I hungry? I’m starving, which is strange since the last time I spent a night getting myself trashed on booze the thought of food made me want to wretch. But, I’m hungry this morning.

I nod.

He pulls away and sits on the edge of the bed. “Would you like me to cook you something or would you rather go out?”

I try desperately not to look flustered. “You don’t need to cook me anything. I usually just have cereal in the morning.”

“Cereal. Sounds charming. No, Chrissie. I’m going to cook you something. You need something substantial in your stomach today.”

My eyes round. There is something strange in all this, but I don’t have a clue what it is. Twenty questions and now meal planning. What difference does it make what I eat?

In a moment, he is rising from the bed and pulling off his shirt. “I expect you to decide what you want by the time I’m done showering.”

With a casual smile, he tosses his shirt onto my chair. I can hardly take in air. Every inch of him has been kissed with perfection. His back and chest are sensual planes of firm, defined, and tanned muscles. Regrettably, there is also quite a bit of ink there, though on him the ink is a turn-on. His tattoos playfully move with his muscles.

My eyes follow him as he moves into the adjacent bathroom. I hear the shower turn on and then the sound of him peeing. He hasn’t closed the door. Clearly, waking up with a strange girl in bed isn’t something uncomfortable for Alan.

The shower door opens and closes. I dart from the bed, pull on the white t-shirt I find on the floor, and frantically grab from the back of the chair my pair of flannel PJ bottoms. Now what do I do? Do I stay in the bedroom or do I make a run for the kitchen?

I curl in the chair where he tossed his shirt and stare at the open bathroom door. There is nothing to panic over. He is being very nice today and definitely as if none of this is any big deal. Deep down I know it isn’t a big deal. It’s perfectly normal, millions of girls are probably just like me, waking up somewhere with a guy they don’t know.

My inner voice taunts me—But Alan Manzone didn’t want to have sex with you. You are the only girl in America waking up in this circumstance still a virgin.