The All-Star Antes Up (Wager of Hearts #2) (25 page)

Luke groaned and let his head fall back on the sofa cushions, closing his eyes. “You have hands like velvet, sugar.”

She circled her thumbs around the tip of his erection, making him moan again. When she reached between her thighs and his to cup his balls, his hips pulsed upward and he lifted his head.

“Time for me to do some of the work.” He reached for the condom and rolled it on before he gave her a questioning look. “You ready for that?”

Just straddling his thighs had made moisture pool inside her. The thought of being impaled on his cock made her inner muscles clench. To answer him, she scooted her knees onto the couch cushion and braced her hands on his shoulders so she was poised over his erection. She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Spare a horse. Ride a cowboy.” Then she sank downward to drive his erection inside her.

They cried out in unison. His hands came to her waist again, this time gripping her like iron bands as he held her there, her legs spread over his lap, her clit grinding against the wiry hair around the base of his cock. The tendons on his neck stood out as he let her absorb him inside her. “You’re so sexy,” he said, his gaze resting on the swell of her breasts.

His cock seemed to thicken inside her. To see if she could break his control, she squeezed her internal muscles.

He released one hand to give her behind a light slap. She yelped in surprise, but the tiny sting ratcheted her arousal up another notch.

“You did that to bother me, sugar,” he said, his voice a rasp.

“Just seeing how long you can hold out.”

“Back to the competition,” he said. He flexed his hips to shift his cock inside her.

She tightened her muscles again, winding her own tension tighter.

He growled and seized her hips, lifting her upward until he was barely inside her. She breathed out a mew of disappointment, and then he brought her downward as he pushed his hips upward. They slammed together, sending an earthquake of heat and friction shuddering through her. For a moment they stayed there suspended, his cock driven deep. Then his hips dropped and he pulled her up again, leaving her almost empty before he reversed the motions.

“Ahhh, yessss,” she moaned, tilting her pelvis so that she forced him even deeper.

“Miranda,” he growled. And then he positioned her so he could let loose, thrusting and withdrawing with a relentless rhythm. He went still before he bucked and howled his release, his voice echoing off the glass wall as he pumped and throbbed inside her. He held her there until she felt his cock soften. When he slid out, the slight friction made her moan.

“Now, you,” he said, slipping his thumb up inside her while his fingers played her clit.

Her muscles clamped around his thumb as her core went incandescent. She rocked and cried out. He touched her again, and her orgasm pulsed once more before releasing her.

She collapsed over him, her head on his shoulder, barely twitching when he withdrew his thumb. She felt the back of his hand brush against her as he stripped off the condom, eliciting a minuscule flicker of sensation. All she could do was sigh against his neck.

He swiveled them around so he could stretch out on the couch, bringing her down with him.

“Won’t this hurt your bruises?” she asked as he wrapped his arms around her back.

“What bruises?”

“Seriously, I shouldn’t be on top of you.”

He tightened his hold. “You make the best kind of blanket.”

His big body radiated warmth like a giant heating pad. “You can’t possibly be cold.”

“Not yet.”

She stopped arguing because she liked the feel of her breasts compressed against his chest and the way his thigh rode between her legs. She enjoyed the ropes of his arms across her back. Her head rose and fell gently with his breathing, and his heartbeat thumped in her ear. His body was so hard that it made her feel very female and soft by contrast. Her muscles were fluid and relaxed, almost as though she had melted over him.

Her eyelids had drifted closed when a loud rumble made her start. “Was that your stomach?”

“Yeah. Ignore it.” He sounded embarrassed, which she found funny.

She remembered that she hadn’t eaten dinner, either. “I’m a little hungry, too.”

“As soon as I can bring myself to let you go, I’ll fix us some quesadillas.”

She nestled into him again. “You can play football
and
cook. Wow.”

“Quesadillas are not cooking. Anyone can throw some meat, cheese, and salsa on a tortilla and heat it up. Mine are only good because my housekeeper, Carmen, makes the salsa and the guac from scratch.”

The thought of fresh guacamole made Miranda’s stomach mutter.

He chuckled. “It’s a chorus.” He helped her roll off him and onto her feet.

She turned to watch him rise from the couch in a ripple of muscle and sinew that took her breath away. “You should really let an artist sculpt a nude statue of you.”

“Yeah, my teammates wouldn’t give me too much grief about that.”

She stepped close to him and traced a ridge of muscle in his lower abdomen. “It’s just that your body reminds me of the Greek and Roman statues at the Met.” She followed the muscle downward. “Only better, because you’re warm and alive. And I get to touch you.”

She heard the hiss of his breath and lifted her head. He had a strange look on his face, a mixture of disbelief, pleasure, and arousal.

“Why do you see me so differently from everyone else?” he asked.

“I can’t be the only one who thinks your body is a work of art.”

His gaze followed her finger as she drew it upward along the clearly defined line in the center of his torso. “My coach sees it as a useful tool. My trainer sees it as something to be whipped into shape. Most women see it as—well, let’s just say they’ve never called it art.”

“How do you see it?” She couldn’t believe he didn’t have any idea of his physical perfection.

“Necessary for my job.”

Chapter 22

Luke seized her hand and started toward the kitchen. “Let’s eat.” He swung around as he felt Miranda pulling back against his forward motion.

“I’m not eating naked,” she said.

“Well, damn.” Disappointment rolled through him as he bent to snag his flannel shirt off the floor. He loved the way her bare breasts quivered as she walked on those spike-heeled boots. He handed the shirt to her with reluctance. As she buttoned it up, he grabbed his jeans.

“Hey, I didn’t say
you
couldn’t eat naked.” Miranda gave him a lascivious smile.

“The chef needs protection,” he said as he pulled them on, leaving the button undone so they rode low on his hips.

She dropped her gaze to his crotch. “We definitely don’t want to damage anything down there.”

Grinning, he wrapped his arm around her waist to hold her against him as he walked them toward the kitchen. Her hair was a riot of tangled waves and smelled like some kind of flowers when he dipped his head to inhale. He splayed his hand over her hip just to have another point of contact with the soft heat of her.

Despite his hunger, he’d wanted to lie on that couch with her hot little body draped over his for the rest of the night. Or until he could make love to her again.

He stopped in front of one of the high stools by the counter and lifted her onto the leather seat, provoking a startled
Oh
from her and a twinge from his bruises. A smile twitched at his lips as she yanked down the shirt his hands had rucked up.

“Stop smirking,” she said, but she was smiling back. She crossed her legs and started to pull at one of her spike-heeled boots.

“Let me.”

She moved her foot away from his hands. “No tickling.”

He easily caught her foot and straightened her leg out in front of her. “Okay, Cinderella.” Slipping the boot off her slender foot, he kneaded the high curve of her arch with his thumbs.

“Ah,” she said, her head falling back and her eyes closing. “Another talent to add to your long list.”

He worked the boot off her other foot and gave it the same treatment. He savored the feel of her skin, the subtlety of her pale pink nail polish, and the little sound she made in the back of her throat, like a cat purring.

“You enjoy being touched.”

Surprise showed in her eyes. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He thought of several women he’d dated who disliked having their hair mussed or their lipstick smeared. Miranda looked delightfully disheveled and didn’t care. She was good with him looking disheveled, too. “You’d be surprised.”

She considered that a moment. She did that a lot: listened to what he had to say and thought about it. “I guess not everyone can handle that kind of intimacy. It must be hard to feel so separate from the people you love.”

Trevor’s comment about their parents flickered through his mind. “It is.”

Her expression softened, and she reached out to brush her fingers along his arm, her touch like a butterfly’s wings, draining away the tension in his muscles. “It’s not a reflection on you. It’s a reflection on them.”

“And you say
I
have many talents.”

“What talent do I have?”

“You give people what they need.”

“I’m a concierge. That’s my job.”

“No, that’s just what they want. You go beyond that, to what will make them feel good about themselves.”

She fluttered her hands in disagreement. “I’m not any better than any other concierge.”

He gently lowered her foot and placed it on the rung of the stool. Going to the refrigerator, he pulled out the containers Carmen had left for him. He’d asked her to make everything fresh today. Three cheeses, freshly grated. Seasoned chicken, thinly sliced. Tender homemade tortillas. Tangy salsa. With the finishing touch of Carmen’s perfectly textured guacamole. He reached up to unhook a skillet from the overhead rack.

“Let me help,” Miranda said, hopping off the stool to join him by the restaurant-size stove.

“You can grab a couple of Dos Equis out of the drinks fridge, but I’m doing the cooking.”

She walked to the undercounter fridge, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor, and bent to bring out two chilled bottles of beer. He took a moment to enjoy the view of his plaid shirt pulled tight over the perfect arc of her rear.

“Opener?” she asked.

He held up his hand, and she carried the bottles over for him to twist off the caps. She tapped the neck of her bottle to his and then tilted her head back to take a hefty swallow with her eyes closed. “That first taste is always the best,” she said, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

“I like the way you drink beer.” He wanted to kiss her and find out how it tasted on her tongue.

Her dark eyes lit with humor. “I guess I should have asked for a glass.”

“Not in my house.” But she’d surprised him with her gusto. For a lot of things. “Sit yourself back down on that stool and let me get some dinner made.”

She trailed a finger down his arm, making his cock twitch. “A quarterback who cooks. Half-naked. If you vacuum, too, my every fantasy has been fulfilled.”

He poured oil in the skillet. “Not big on vacuuming, but I can muck out a stall.”

“Half-naked?”

“When it’s hot enough.”

“I’d turn that into a sexual innuendo, but it’s too easy,” she said, perching on the stool. She tilted her head. “Do you have any idea how tempting it is to lay my ice-cold beer bottle against your gorgeously muscular back?”

He laughed, a full-throated “I’m having a great time” laugh. Something he hadn’t done in a while. “Try it and see where I put
my
ice-cold beer bottle on your pretty little body.” He let his gaze rest on her and pictured his revenge, heat flashing through him. “I dare you.”

“Maybe after dinner,” she said, giving him one of her half-laughing, half-provocative glances.

She kept him smiling as he made the quesadillas with extra care. He wanted them to be perfect. The smell of warm, zesty Mexican spices soon saturated the kitchen air.

“I didn’t realize how hungry I was,” Miranda said as she inhaled. “At least let me set the table.”

Luke flipped the last quesadilla on the platter. “Already taken care of. Grab that tray with the sour cream, salsa, and guac, and come with me.” He took out two more beers and gestured toward the door to the dining room, letting her go first.

She stopped short as soon as she walked through the door. “Everywhere I go with you, there’s an incredible view.” She looked up at him, her eyes luminous. “And sunflowers.”

Satisfaction warmed him. He’d set up a table for two right in front of the glass wall looking out across New York Harbor. Carmen had arranged colorful Mexican pottery on the table, and he’d ordered the flowers.

“They remind me of our tour.” And of her. The warm, vibrant color with its dark, deep center captured her essence. He nudged her gently with his elbow. “Let’s eat.”

They settled at the table, lighting the candles and dishing out the food. The candlelight shimmered along the waves of her dark hair and danced in the brown velvet of her eyes.

She heaped guacamole on a slice of quesadilla and took her first bite, groaning in appreciation. “Okay, you don’t have to vacuum. The quesadillas are enough.” She ate another mouthful, then stopped. “Your stomach started this. Why aren’t you eating?”

Because he wanted to concentrate on her every movement, to soak up her presence. He decided on the truth. “It’s like the strawberries at the ballet. I want to watch your reaction.”

A strange, unsettling expression crossed her face. It reminded him of the way DaShawn had looked around the football stadium after the last game he played. Except Miranda was looking at him across the table.

He felt an urgent need to know everything about her. Picking up a slice of quesadilla, he asked in a casual tone, “So, why did you want to be a concierge?”

Miranda stopped chewing. They’d been flirting, bantering, keeping things light. Except for the sex, which was intense. And now he’d asked her a real question. She didn’t want that kind of emotional connection with him. It would just make tomorrow more dismal.

But he was impossible to resist.

She swallowed her food and took a sip of beer. “I didn’t want to be a concierge. I didn’t even know they existed until I came to the city.”

That intense gaze of his was locked on her, and his silence told her to go on.

“I studied bookkeeping at a community college, so I got a job in the accounting office of a midtier hotel. One day the hotel manager walked into the middle of our warren of cubicles and yelled, ‘Does anyone here know anything about Broadway plays?’” Miranda still read all the theater listings and reviews, even though she could only afford off-off-off-Broadway tickets. “I thought he wanted a suggestion for his family, so I popped up from my chair and said, ‘Do you want a musical, a drama, or a comedy?’”

“I can picture that,” Luke said, his dimple showing. “You couldn’t help being helpful.”

“It’s a real character flaw.” Miranda took another swallow of beer. “He looked me up and down and said, ‘Come with me.’ Turns out the regular second-shift concierge had shown up for work drunk for the third time, so the manager had fired him on the spot. It was Friday afternoon and he needed a replacement instantly. He handed me phone numbers for three ticket brokers and a list of maître d’s at restaurants near the hotel and left me at the concierge desk. Alone.”

“Baptism by fire,” Luke said.

She’d stayed until midnight and gone home on a high of adrenaline and exhilaration. “I knew I’d found my dream career. The next morning I called the manager and asked for the job.”

“And the rest is history.”

“Not quite.” She’d nearly cried when the manager had told her she didn’t have the necessary connections to be the hotel’s concierge. “He wouldn’t take me on until I offered to work the night shift for free on weekends to get experience and build my contact list.”

He sat back, his beer dangling from one hand. The candle flames danced in a waft of air, casting moving shadows over the sculpted contours of his bare torso. “We’re a lot alike,” he said.

“You and me? How?” She couldn’t imagine any parallel between her insignificant career and his fame.

“We go after what we want.” He grinned. “You’re just more subtle about it.”

“Well, I didn’t actually tackle the hotel manager, but I begged blatantly.” She returned his smile for a moment before getting serious. “Your turn. Why did you decide to be a quarterback?”

“Huh.” She’d gotten to enjoy that huff of a response Luke gave when he was thinking about something. “I played a lot of sports as a kid. Ma said I used practices as an excuse to avoid homework.” His face softened at the memory. “Truth is, I was good at all of them. But football is the state religion of Texas, so I signed up for youth football as soon as Ma would let me. I was nine.”

“And the rest truly
is
history.”

His grin turned cocky. “Well, yeah. I had a great arm even then.” He shook his head. “But I knew football was my game for a different reason.”

His eyes lost their focus as he thought back to his past, to the decisions he had made then.

“In the first official game I ever played, the other kids just followed the ball like lemmings, no matter how much the coach yelled at them to remember their positions. I didn’t understand that, because I could see the whole field, see the play unfolding, figure out where the holes would be, who could get open. Coaches call it field vision. For me, it was like being able to slow down time. I got drunk on that power. Craved it.” He snapped back to the present. “It’s not a talent that has a lot of uses, so I decided to be a quarterback.”

She could hear an edge in his voice as he spoke the last sentence, reminding her of his struggle to find a new purpose after football. “I think it will come in handy when you’re a financial adviser and the markets go crazy.”

“Maybe.” He shifted in his chair. “What does that look mean? It’s the second time I’ve seen it tonight.”

She’d been thinking about how much she would miss talking to him so honestly, seeing the vulnerability behind the tough, golden image. She didn’t hide hers, either. “Just saving up memories.”

He went still, and his lips thinned with some inner tension. She might have revealed too much.

“We’ve got plenty more time,” he said. “Tonight. Tomorrow night. Remember, I can make time slow down.” His promise vibrated low within her.

She needed to tell him before he short-circuited her brain. “Not tomorrow night. I can’t.”