Vegas Heat, Cowboy Nights

I came to Vegas for a drink, a bed, and exactly zero complications.

What I got was him. Tall, tanned, and trouble in well-worn jeans. He talks like heat and moves like sin, and the moment our eyes lock across that overpriced hotel bar, the night rewrites itself.

It was supposed to be one night. No names. No morning after. But then he opened his mouth. Low, gravelly, and dangerously charming. Suddenly I'm saying yes to more than just another round.

He's a cowboy on leave from the ranch. I'm a burned-out consultant with too many rules. And somewhere between tequila shots and tangled sheets, we both forget this was never supposed to matter.

He says he knows my name. And he plans to use it.

Again and again.