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 fucked 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...