The cab ride back to the hotel was too hot—the windows were down, no AC going—but Brenna’s main focus was the fact that Damon sat with his legs apart, the way guys often did, and his denim-clad knee touched hers.

Insane how a tiny touch like that could make her so hot inside, too.

They didn’t speak—the cabbie had techno music blaring, making the car’s seat pulse beneath her. But as they passed through the Venetian’s vast floral-scented lobby a few minutes later, Damon told her to come to his suite the next morning. They would order breakfast in the room, he said, then spend the day going over Blue Night’s various contracts—she would learn what she could offer, which terms were flexible and which were not.