One minute I'm watching these ridiculously muscled, ridiculously gorgeous men in skin-tight white t-shirts and jeans as they dance and shake and dry hump their way around the stage and into the crowd, oozing with more feverish sexuality and unbelievable physical skill than any man—let alone a group of them—should ever be allowed to humanly possess.

The next, one of those men is suddenly shirtless, with those perfectly fitting jeans unbuckled, and he's got me pinned under every rock hard, chiseled muscle of his body.

I could feel everything. Every taut muscle that bunched and clenched with the exertion of his rhythmic movements. Every hot, damp breath against my ear and the flushed skin of my face. And the very evident hardness that he rocked toward me in time to the beat of the dance music that blasted from the speakers on all sides of me.

Good God, was that really what was supposed to happen at these kinds of shows?

I could hear Beth and our other friends gasping and laughing and cheering this dancer on, but their voices had suddenly seemed so far away. The distance of what I could hear only seemed to become blatantly obvious the moment that what I could see and feel went into overdrive.

Derek.

That was his name.

And until he'd whispered it into my ear with such seductive playfulness, I wasn't sure I'd ever really known what it was like to hear a voice I'd never heard before, but had unconsciously yearned to hear without ever realizing that the yearning even existed.

And if his lewd physical gestures and sexy voice weren't enough, he had to lock eyes with me. It was like everything around me just stopped. For a split-second, at least. I didn't understand then what was going on, and I sure as hell don't understand now, but something happened. He looked at me in a way that no other man has ever looked at me before. It was like he wasn't looking at me, but into me. And while I was mortified by him shoving his bare abs and barely contained cock into my face at eye level, I was just as humiliated by the way he stopped moving completely, staring at me like I was something he'd never seen before.

Because he was something I'd never seen before. Or experienced.

Now, as I make my way out into the hallway of the resort I'm staying at, I feel even more embarrassed and childish than I had last night. In the bright light of the day, my reaction to Sexy-Dance Derek—as Beth had dubbed him after the show—and his far too fit physique was irrational, and downright silly. He was a half-naked dancer—a stripper, if you wanted to be truthful about the matter, and he'd honed in on my obvious disquiet about being there, using my uncertainty as to how to react as a prop for his sexy, over-the-top show. He'd used me, and the mischievous little grin he wore while he did it had indicated just how much he was enjoying it.

“Screw him,” I mumble under my breath as I shove the key card to my hotel room into the book bag I'm lugging toward the outdoor pool that is the central focal point, and the area the entire hotel is built around.

I've only been here two nights, and the palm trees and lounge chairs that are scattered around the fenced-in pool area have quickly become the one thing that I've enjoyed immensely since stepping off the plane in Las Vegas and making my way to the Bermuda Resort.

I’m the only one that booked all four nights at this place, while Beth and my other friends had chosen to book their stay at the Bellagio, wanting to be in the thick of the excitement, bright lights, and fun that the Las Vegas Strip was so well known for. I, on the other hand, chose the Bermuda because it isn't on the Strip, and therefore harbors a level of quiet and relaxation that no place on the Strip could ever match.

I meant it when I said that the bright lights and dark secrets of a city like Las Vegas aren't for me.

Therefore, I choose to hide out at the Bermuda for as long as I can each day, at least until Beth tracks me down with constant phone calls or, like last night before the Thunder And Lightning show, showing up and banging on my hotel door until I relent and let her in. I’d had every intention of attending that show last night anyway, but Beth, knowing me so well, knew that there might be a chance I would attempt to get out of it.

Now, after the whole Derek incident, I'm wishing I’d gone with my gut and stayed hidden within the depths of my Bermuda hotel room, ordering room service and cuddling into the oversized king bed with the copy of Michael Connelly's new book I brought with me.

I sigh, knowing I need to just let last night's events go. I need to stop letting it eat me up the way it is. And as I settle into one of the vacant lounge chairs beside the beautiful stone water fountain that's beside the pool, I can hear Beth's words echoing in my head just as vividly as they had last night on the way back from the dance show.

Like a good friend, she’d accompanied me back to my hotel even though she wasn't staying here, knowing that I was upset. The difference between Beth knowing that I was angry and me knowing that I was angry, was that Beth believed I was angry for an inaccurate reason. She knows me and my timid demeanor, and immediately assumed I was pissed off because Sexy-Dance Derek had decided to publicly violate me for the sake of his stupid show.

And now that I think of it, I guess I am a little pissed off about that.

However, the real reason I'm as angry as I am is because I enjoyed it.

It genuinely pains me to admit it, but I loved every minute of having Derek's eyes on me, staring into me like he understood me the way no one else possibly could. I had immediately succumbed to the blissful heat of his fingers and the arousing promise of the hardness I found myself leaning toward in the hopes of him rubbing it up against me.

I had no qualms about going along with Beth's belief that I was pissed off at Derek for doing what he did, because it was much easier to agree with that than admit that I wasn't angry with him at all. It was me that I was angry at, and no one else. I shouldn't have wanted him, and I shouldn't have let him continue with his sexy little dance number.

But I did, and now I can't get it out of my head.

“Get over it,” I mumble again as I lower my book bag onto the concrete ground of the pool area, reaching up to pull the fitted tank top over my head that I'd wore on the way down from my room. I can't remember the last time I donned a bikini, but the lack of material and flashiness of the almost fluorescent design is a pretty clear indicator that the skimpy outfit is borrowed. I think I could have knocked Beth over with a feather when I confessed to her that I don't even own a bathing suit, let alone one that is two pieces and unarguably sexy.

I toss the shirt down onto the concrete beside my bag, pulling the book from it on the way back up. Then, I lower the sunglasses that had been perched on my head down over my eyes and stretch out on the lounge chair.

Immediately, the sun begins to beat down on me, and I know damn well that today—if I’m not interrupted for the next couple of hours—I’m destined for a pretty brutal sunburn. And the thing is, I don't care. Being from Ohio, I was raised in a place used to snow and cold in February, not the sunny, warm climate that Nevada boasts. Even if I burn to a crisp, the hours in the sun will be more than worth it.

I’ve just managed to clear my mind of the outside distractions, which include the fiesta-style music that plays quietly through the speakers that look like rocks placed sporadically around the pool area, and the prying eyes of only a handful of other people who occupy a few of the lounge chairs on the other side of the pool, when a loud splash catches my attention.

My first thought is that it has to be a kid, because no self-respecting adult would do a cannonball in the middle of a fancy pool area, especially when there are other adults in that pool area as well. But, when I raise my gaze from the words on the page to look beyond the book in front of me, my eyebrows arch high on my forehead at the sight of a grown man clad in only red board shorts hauling himself out of the pool, looking mighty satisfied with himself for having caused a ruckus.

I scoff, giving my head a slight shake at the audacity he has. Then again, this is Vegas. Anything goes here, isn't that the saying? I turn my attention back to my book, trying to pretend I didn't notice the sinewy muscles of his arms or the dark designs of the tattoos on his neck and arm that I can’t quite make out clearly.

Things are just starting to get good. I’m halfway through the story I’m reading, have a decent hunch as to who the killer is, and the suspense has built to a point where everything is about to fall into place for the main character to figure it out as well. That's when I feel the icy droplets of water rain down on me, splattering on the open pages of my book and dotting my bare skin and bikini with dark, wet spots.

I let out a startled shriek, immediately pushing my sunglasses up on top of my head and standing so I can get a good look at the jerk who is ruining my moment of peace. “Come on!” I wave an exasperated hand at the man in the red board shorts, indicating my frustration. “What's the big idea of trying to—”

My words are cut off as the man pulls himself out of the pool once more, up onto the concrete ground before me, standing tall. Without the darkness of my sunglasses shielding my eyes and the distraction of my book, I take the man in completely for the first time. It’s not the neck tattoos or the designs that mar his arm, or even the small, dark, horseshoe-shaped birthmark just above his pelvic bone that I recognize immediately upon seeing him—those aren't the things that stop me in my tracks.

It’s his eyes.

Bright, clear...and very obviously recognizing me.

“Derek.”