The night air outside Ethan Blackwood’s penthouse was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the city below. Aria leaned against the balcony railing, silk dress clinging to her curves, hair tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her pulse raced—not from the cold—but from the memory of Ethan’s hands, his lips, the way he had claimed her again and again yesterday.

She tried to steady herself, tried to think logically. This was a contract. A business arrangement. Nothing more. She could ...