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Just then, Blush came into view and Damon pulled her by the hand into the masses standing before the stage. She instantly sized up the band with one glimpse: they weren’t gorgeous, or even conventionally pretty, but they were sexy and they knew it. It was in

their confidence, and in their music.

The four young women varied in appearance, but all were in their twenties and wore skimpy tops resulting in ample cleavage. The lead singer possessed long blond hair, board straight, with dramatically harsh bangs that matched her dramatically harsh makeup. She belted out an old Joan Jett song, “Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah),” moving provocatively with the standing microphone. She sported a black leather bustier and a ragged denim mini that started low on her hips and stopped high on her thighs.

“What do you think?” Damon asked in Brenna’s ear, now standing behind her.

She kept her eyes on the singer, afraid to look at Damon—in case she accidentally kissed him or something. Her whole body hummed with lust. “A little rough around the edges, but

confident, and sexy as hell. In control of the audience and knows how to work them.”  Despite the intoxication rushing through her veins, her brain continued to churn. “We could  market them like a smarter, hipper, more modern Courtney Love.”

But then she did turn to look at him, because she had no idea if she was on the right track or if she, conversely, sounded like a total newbie, and she wanted his honest reaction.

His eyes shone warm on her. “Very good.”

But then his gaze dropped to her mouth.

And her cunt spasmed.

So she bit her lip and turned to face forward again, watching the band.

them?” “Although,” she said, still speaking her thoughts aloud, “isn’t Blush too soft a name for

She peeked over her shoulder to see Damon give his head a quick shake. “It’s ironic, ” he said. “Or maybe it means they make you blush. But either way, it says something about them. Most band names these days are just words somebody thought sounded good together, but they don’t say anything about the music or the band. This says something about their image, and that makes it a built-in marketing tool.”

“Ah,” she said, getting it. “Cool.”

All around them, the mixed mainstream-and-gothic crowd moved to the music, and without thought or decision, Brenna found her hips beginning to sway back and forth, as well. She kept her eye on the blond singer, watching her seduce fans with her heavily outlined eyes and the way she thrust her breasts forward or swung her hair dramatically over one shoulder.

“What does the crowd tell you about this band?” Damon asked near her ear. But his voice

came a little lower now, raspier. His breath on her skin made her tingle below.

She shifted her focus from the lead singer to the people around her, trying to think. But it was difficult because the room was still too full, keeping her close to Damon, and now that she was moving with the music, she was also moving slightly against him .

On one side of her stood a young couple who looked like they could live next door to her—average, middle-class—dancing wildly. On the other she found a girl with bright pink hair, shrouded in black from head to toe. And she knew the answer.

Only this time, instead of turning to face Damon, she merely leaned back, resting her head on his shoulder to speak up into his ear. “A cult following that’s gone mainstream.  Crossover appeal.”

Again he said, “Very good,” but also again, his voice went lower, his eyes shaded as he peered down at her, and it would have been damn easy to kiss him because their faces, mouths, were so dangerously close.

So Brenna promptly lifted her head back up, watched the band. She didn’t want to talk anymore—talking, even about business, seemed perilous at the moment. She just wanted to be quiet now, listen to the music, soak up the atmosphere. And maybe dance the alcohol out of her system before she did something stupid.

Still observing the crowd, though, her gaze stuck on two girls kissing, passionately making

out near the stage. Both were young, pretty, not particularly gothic, and, if she had to  guess, not really lesbians. In fact, she suspected the two good-looking guys standing by  watching lustfully were their boyfriends.

Their eyes were closed, their tongues meeting in languorous abandon as their hands ran caressingly over each other’s body. Brenna didn’t want to keep watching, but something about the sight hypnotized her. And despite her shock, she couldn’t help feeling a little excited by the blatant sexuality of the act. Just like those stupid moving billboards—she didn’t want to be aroused by it, but to her astonishment, she was.

So much softness. So much sex.

Just out there.

And somehow, that was the point of it.

Would the two young women be taking such delight in each other if they were alone? Or was it about doing it in front of their boyfriends and in public? Brenna didn’t know for sure, but she felt —to the marrow of her bones—that behaving so outrageously without going behind closed doors was a big ingredient in their desire.

A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that Damon had followed her eyes and noticed the two girls, as well.

Old Brenna was embarrassed. To be caught watching something like that. And by Damon of all people. She instantly wondered if he could see how much it aroused her—her pussy felt positively huge beneath her skirt, as if, at this moment, it was the biggest part of her.

But new Brenna simply asked him, “Does that turn you on?”

God, what was she doing? After all, she’d decided it was safer not to talk anymore. Yet she couldn’t help being curious. Wanting to know what he felt, yearning to understand the way he thought about things. Sexual things.

“Yeah,” he said simply. Blunt about it, just like during their conversation last night.

She bit her lip, her breasts seeming to swell within the cups of her bra. He was aroused, too—right now, right here, next to her.

Did that mean he was hard? She suffered the urge to find out, to reach out and press her hand to the front of his pants. “Tell me why,” she murmured instead.

He watched the girls a moment more, drawing Brenna’s gaze back to them, as well—and then finally turned to look her squarely in the eye. “Two of everything. Two sets of soft female lips. Two pairs of round breasts. All those curves…moving together.”

Ah. Maybe that made sense. And maybe that explained why she was excited, too. Her gaze stayed locked on his, but she couldn’t summon an answer, so he went on.

“I like women who are free enough to follow their urges, lose their inhibitions.”

Now she found her voice, to say, “I’m not sure they have inhibitions,” and they both laughed, but it faded quickly because the mood taking over the club was pervasive.

To Brenna’s left, the couple she’d noticed dancing before were now also kissing. Their bodies moved rhythmically to the music, their mouths grinding together as sensually as their pelvises. And a goth guy now nibbled on the neck of the pink-haired girl on Brenna’s right. The girl smiled, letting her tongue slide slowly across her upper lip. It was as if sex was filling the room, floating in the very air, almost as if it were somehow being pumped into the building the same way casinos were rumored to pump extra oxygen into the gaming areas. Brenna’s skin prickled, soft but powerful sensations echoing through her body, making her want to get lost in it all.

Yet her attention was drawn back to the stage when Blush broke into a new song with a steamy, sexy beat. Unfamiliar with it, she assumed it was an original. And like the last song—like many of their songs, it seemed—it was about sex.

Through a pumping chorus, the band repeated the words “best hands” again and again, leaving Brenna to conclude that must be the title. The blonde sang about the hands easing their way across her skin, about fingers dipping into private places, and eventually about the hands reaching, reaching, for ecstasy. The whole crowd soon focused on the young woman, who began to move against the mike stand as she had before.

Brenna realized that not only was she watching the singer ease the microphone between her legs, thrusting gently with the beat of the song, but she was watching it with Damon.  They were witnessing it together, experiencing it together. In fact, they were experiencing it with every person in the room. More blatant sex on display.

fascinated. Yet as time passed, she grew less repulsed than she’d been last night—and more

The whole club seemed to pulsate with the beat now, and Brenna continued moving her hips back and forth, surrendering herself to the intoxicating strains.

She should have been alarmed when she felt Damon’s hands mold to her hips, but she wasn’t.

It was too incredible to be touched by him, even just in that small way, pleasure spreading rapidly through her.

And then, then—oh yes!—he was pressing into her from behind, enough for her to realize he was going hard against her ass. It felt like a dream, a fantasy, but it was shockingly real.

Low in her ear, he rasped, “Dance with me, Brenna. Move with me.”

It would have been smart to step away, or to tell him to remember they were professionals here, doing a job. That this was a mistake.

Yet she simply couldn’t. More than just the song was intoxicating her. More than the alcohol she’d consumed. She was drunk on Damon Andros, and she had been for the last twenty-four hours. And she’d tried to play this smart, be bigger than her lust—but now it was consuming her.

So she moved with him, drank in the heat of his body as he leaned closer, felt the power of his hot erection against her rear.

Had anything in her life ever felt better?

She didn’t think so.

She didn’t think any physical sensation had ever pulled her in so quick, so deep, leaving her helpless to fight it.

Together they swayed as the blonde on the stage purred the provocative lyrics that added fuel to their fire. Brenna never looked at him after that, simply kept her eyes straight ahead, feeling it all, trying to survive it, trying to believe it, and wondering what would happen now.

But she knew what would happen, of course. The song would end. The song would end and they’d stop moving together and they’d pretend things were normal again, that he hadn’t touched her, that she hadn’t experienced the deep, raw pleasure of his stiffened cock against her ass.

And it was just as she drew that conclusion…that something else entirely took place.

The warm masculine hand curving over her right hip eased upward, over the gauzy fabric covering her stomach and higher, higher, coming to rest beneath her breast, his thumb arcing up onto the rounded flesh while his fingers played about the bottom of her bra. The intense delight combined with intense need to make her sway more sensually, her breath turning labored, her cunt throbbing madly.

Which is when his other hand snaked downward onto her thigh—and up under her skirt.

That quick, that smooth. His fingertips eased between her legs, caressing the silk there.

Her breath hitched and she involuntarily moved in a whole new way, beginning to undulate, as if she were having sex. She met his touch in front and pressed her ass to his hard-on in back. His right arm now circled her waist to keep her steady—he must have realized he was making her weak, her whole body nearly convulsing from the hot strokes his fingers delivered.

Did anyone around them see what was going on, the way he was touching her? Surely not—the crowd remained tight, the spaces between bodies mostly dark, private even though in public.

She’d long since ceased paying attention to the song but glanced up at the stage in time to catch the last line: The best hands are mine. It was an end-of-song twist—the lyricist had no lover, but was touching herself.

God. Oh God. Damon kissed Brenna’s neck now, sending fresh spirals of pleasure all through her. Oh

And when the song ended, the crowd cheered—and Damon leaned near her ear to rasp the words, “Come with me.”

She turned to find that meeting his gaze now was different—even more paralyzing.  Because his hands were on her. Because he wanted her as much as she wanted him.  And Kelly’s words came back to her. Instant lover. Just add lust and stir. She’d never dreamed it could really happen.

Damon’s hand closed firm around her smaller one as he pulled her through the crowd.  She didn’t see the people they passed, didn’t hear the next song begin—she could focus

on nothing but him and the need that burned through her.

They broke away from the masses near the back of the club, and he led her briskly down a low-lit hallway. He twisted the knob on an unmarked door, but it was locked. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, then tried another across the hall. This one opened and he pulled her inside. Shut the door behind them. Flipped on a light switch to illuminate a dim bulb overhead.

They stood in a supply closet amid buckets and brooms and shelves filled with cleaning products. Her heartbeat pulsed everywhere as their gazes met, both hot and ready.

Damon lifted his hands to her face and kissed her, pushing his tongue warm and moist between her lips. Her mouth, her whole body, responded—she was on autopilot now, following urges, vaguely recalling how Damon had told her that turned him on. Pressing her palms to his chest, she curled her fingernails into his shirt as one heated kiss turned into another.