Kenzie stood outside Damien’s brownstone at eight pm, heart hammering harder than it had in the conference room that morning. She had changed after the seminar into a soft oversized cream sweater that slipped off one shoulder and a tiny black skirt with nothing underneath. In her tote bag: her latest Brontë paper, a bottle of expensive red, and zero intention of actually discussing literature until he had f****d the thoughts out of her head.
She knocked. The door opened almost immediately.
Damien wore dark gray sweatpants slung low on his hips and a black Henley that clung to his chest and shoulders. His hair was still damp from a shower. He looked edible.
“Miss Hale,” he drawled, stepping aside. “Prompt. I like that in a student.”
Kenzie brushed past him, letting her shoulder graze hi
