And he wanted to do all those things. The need for it was curling in the pit of his stomach as he lay back on his crossed arms in the flatbed of the truck he'd 'borrowed' from one of the tourists at the crash site. The need for it was almost greater than the need to find home. Almost.

He sighed, staring up at the sky. . .at the stars that dotted it like holes in the top of microwaveable meal plastic wrap. Had any of them spawned him, Max, and Isabel? Or were they from some place further? Some place beyond sight? He knew it was definitely beyond Roswell, New Mexico. There had to be something better than Roswell. . .

Michael winced, rubbing his hand over his tired eyes. Trying not to think about Maria was evidently a no-go. Everything led him to her. School. The Crash Down. Even Max--thanks to Liz Parker. Everywhere he looked, he saw her cute, blond, pixie hair. . .or her long, shapely legs. . .or some stupid alien toy her mother had made! And he couldn't even look at damned Tobasco sauce without picturing what it would taste like as he licked it off her skin. Why was it that food, licking, and Maria all went together? Why was it that he couldn't stop thinking about her? Why was it that he'd started feeling after nearly seventeen years of being utterly dead inside and totally careless on the out?

He shivered, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, suddenly wishing he'd worn more than one of his thin, raggedy, black t-shirts. Nights were cold out in the desert. . .cold and lonely. "Damn!" He banged his head on the blanket-covered metal flatbed. . .once. . .twice. And it did nothing except make his head throb. Maria's face was still there. . .her voluptuous body was still there. . .demanding to know why he hadn't just grabbed her at that 'nookie motel' and buried this crazy attraction deep in her totally human core.

He knew why.

One taste of her would never be enough.

She was sweet, fiery, and, worst of all, infinitely more touchable than a distant planet he couldn't remember. She was light and laughter and annoying chatter. . .she was a hot, seedy, fantasy that woke him in the middle of the night. She was quickly becoming the reason he got out of bed at all. . .and the reason he fled back to it.

Michael Guerin was terrified that he would never find out where he'd come from. . .because wherever Maria DeLuca was. . .was home.