“What are you doing?”

He says, “Oh. Well I didn’t have time to run home and pack my jammies so tonight I’m sleeping in my undies.”

The thought of Daren lying next to me in his underwear all night just makes my belly tighten even more.

I trap his hands at the waist of his jeans. “Uh-uh.” I bore my eyes into his. “Your pants are staying on tonight.”

A tiny voice inside my head protests, No! Take his pants off. Take everything off, and my throat goes dry. Why am I so lust-driven around Daren?

Maybe it’s not him. Maybe I just really need to get laid. When’s the last time I had sex? Or rather, when’s the last time I had good sex?

I frown. It’s been a long time, if ever, really.

My eyes fall to Daren’s lips, tracing the shape, and I wish I could be his tongue and play in his mouth.

A long, long time.

Snap out of it, Kayla. You will not be a horndog while chained to this arrogant—yet astoundingly pretty—boy.

Daren’s mouth falls open. “But I hate sleeping in jeans.”

“And I hate changing in front of strangers. I guess neither of us gets to have their way.”

“For the love of God.” His eyes grow wide. “We. Are. Not. Strangers.”

“Aw…” I smile mockingly. “It’s so sweet how you want to be my friend.”

“That’s it. We’re kissing again. Come here.” He reaches for me.

I lean away with a smirk. “Fat chance. Now button up your pants and let’s go to bed.”

He flashes his dimple. “Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear a girl say to me.”

“God. You’re so freaking proud of your sex life, aren’t you?” I turn off the lamp, throwing us into darkness save for the orange light glowing in through the window, and follow him to the bed.

“Actually, I am,” he says, sounding sincere. “I’m kind of a stud in the sack.”

He pulls back the gross comforter and climbs onto the sheets, sliding over to the right side. If he weren’t acting so conceited, I would probably thank him.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a ‘legendary lover,’ ” I say, sounding bored as I crawl in after him. “Every guy says that.”

We lie down as far away from each other as possible, him on his back, me on my tummy, with our cuffed arms stretched between us.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m actually telling the truth.”

“Right.”

“It’s one of the few things I’m actually good at.” He pauses. “The only thing, actually.”

There’s something almost sad in his voice and it confuses me. Most guys sound like proud pricks when they talk about their sexual skills. But Daren sort of sounds… wistful.

I scowl into the darkness. “What is this? Some kind of weird pity party?” I snort. “If you’re fishing for compliments, you’ve come to the wrong place. I know nothing about your sex life, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be stroking your ego while lying beside you in the dark, in handcuffs.”

The moment the words leave my mouth I feel the atmosphere change. As if bringing attention to our overtly sexual predicament woke our libidos up—not that mine was ever asleep.

I feel the mattress move as Daren shifts. “I wasn’t asking you to stroke my ego,” he says. “I was just explaining why I take pride in my sexual prowess. Some guys are good at sports, or playing guitar, or making money… and I’m good at sex.” He says this like it’s a fact and not his ego on parade.

“Well good for you,” I say, and just to piss him off I add, “I’m sure you’re a solid six in bed.”

“A si—” He mocks a gasp. “That’s just mean.”

“A six is generous,” I say. “Most guys are a two.”

“Obviously you’ve been sleeping with the wrong guys.”

Tell me about it.

My sexual history isn’t exciting. I’ve slept with three guys. The first was my high school boyfriend. He was an okay guy and sex with him wasn’t horrible, but it also wasn’t amazing. I’m pretty sure the only reason he dated me was because of sex. He didn’t seem too interested in me otherwise. But I didn’t know better at the time.

My second sexual partner was a wannabe musician I worked with at the diner. He was five years older than me, covered in tattoos, and decent in bed. But that was all he ever wanted to do. Day in and day out. Sex, sex, sex. I eventually got sick of being his on-call orgasm and broke up with him. He cried. Actually shed tears. But the next night he went home with another waitress. I guess his broken heart mended quickly.

The last guy I slept with was my ex-boyfriend, Jeremy. He was a meathead who loved parading me around town like I was his show pony. He always wanted me to get dressed up so he could take me out and “be seen.” And sex with him was a minimal-kissing lights-always-on event that made me feel kind of used. Three months into our relationship, I realized he knew nothing about me other than what I looked like, and when I brought that to his attention, he didn’t seem too bothered by my concern and instead turned all the lights on and asked me to get naked. I dumped his ass on the spot.

It seemed like I was nothing more than an ass and a pair of boobs when it came to guys. So after dumping Jeremy, I decided I didn’t need to share my body with anyone else unless they were going to see the person inside. The me that existed beneath my lips and breasts.

I have yet to come across such a guy.

“How’s your wrist feeling?” Daren says, lightly moving our cuffs.

I turn my hand over. “It’s okay, I guess. It’s a little sore, but not bad.”

“Mine too,” he says. “I’ll try to take it easy tomorrow so you don’t end up with any bruises.”

“Thanks,” I say.

He shifts. “These things really are uncomfortable.”

“Yeah. I definitely understand why people use the fuzzy kind for sex play.”

He laughs. “Tell me, Kayla. Have you ever used the fuzzy kind—or any other kind of restraints—for ‘sex play’? I bet you have. I bet you’re into all sorts of kinky things.”

I roll my eyes. “Not everyone is a whore like you.”

“Ooh. Ouch.” The bed squeaks as he turns to face me. “Why do you think I’m a whore? Because I have sex with a lot of girls?”

“No. I think you’re a whore because you’re not picky about the girls you have sex with.”

“How would you know?”

“Because all I heard about growing up is how you’d slept with half the town—and that was just when we were in high school.”

“Wow. Your Lana friend sure was a blabbermouth,” he says, sounding slightly offended.

“So you admit the rumors were true.”

“In my defense, the town is pretty small.” He scoffs. “And excuse me if we can’t all get our validation from people merely looking at us.”

I scowl into the dark, feeling my playful energy fade away with the insult. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that of course you can be picky about who you sleep with,” he says. “You feel good about yourself every single day. All you have to do is step out into public and everyone within a five-mile radius starts to drool over your beauty. I don’t get that kind of validation just by waking up. I have to work for my self-worth. And I happen to be really good at sex. So forgive me if I like to feel good about myself.”

My blood boils. What he just said is everything I fight against being seen as. It’s the reason people don’t give me a chance and why I try so hard to change their minds. And Daren just used it against me.

I turn the light on and whip my face to him. “First of all, my good looks don’t give me my self-worth. There’s more to me than just my boobs or my butt or my face. But people can’t see me—the real me—because they’re too busy staring at me. My heart and mind are invisible. I’m a person, and people forget that. They forget that I can hurt and be insecure, just like anyone else. Second, you having sex to feel good about yourself is complete and total bullshit. I don’t care how good you are in bed, Daren. You’re valuable simply because you’re you. We all are.”