Page 21

Chapter

Sixteen

L ucas drove the rental like it was built for Daytona, not downtown Clearwater. He wove between slow-moving spring breakers and oblivious minivans with the precision of a man barely hanging on to his last shred of self-control.

Miranda didn’t complain.

She wanted him desperate. She needed to feel the same fire that had been simmering between them finally set free.

She had no illusions about what this was. Maybe it was one night. Maybe more. But this wasn’t about romance or fairytales—it was chemistry, combustion. A craving too long ignored. Whatever happened, she’d finally know how it felt when this storm between them finally broke loose.

She reached across the cramped center console and ran her fingertips along his thigh, her touch featherlight and deliberate. Her fingers skimmed over the thick line of his arousal, twitching beneath his jeans. She smiled wickedly.

But before she could go further, he grabbed her hand and pressed it down onto her own thigh, his grip firm, possessive.

“Careful, darling,” he warned, voice low and strained. “This night might end before it starts.”

“Oh?” she murmured, all faux-innocence. “Only one round? That’s all you’ve got?”

“Miranda…” he growled as he ran a red-leaning yellow light, heat crackling in every syllable.

That growl sent a bolt of desire straight through her. She flexed her fingers under his grip, challenging him again, but he only tightened his hold.

By the time they pulled up to the hotel, he was out of the car so fast she didn’t even register the door opening. He circled around, opened hers, and yanked her to her feet with a hungry look in his eyes.

“Thank God we checked in earlier.” His voice was a rasp. “My room’s closer.”

“Eager much?” she teased, but she was practically jogging to keep up.

They bypassed the elevator and took the stairs—neither willing to risk a crying toddler breaking the spell. He shoved the key into the lock and paused when the light turned green, one arm braced against the frame, blocking her.

“Miranda,” he said, voice softer, more careful. “It’s okay if you’ve changed your mind.”

She grabbed his shirt and pulled him into a kiss that left no room for doubt, then slipped under his arm into the room. “You having second thoughts, Lucas?”

“Hell no,” he said, slamming the door shut behind him. “Just trying to be a gentleman. Like my mama raised me.”

She gave him a sultry smile as she lounged back on the king-sized bed. “Forget everything your mama taught you. Get in here.”

He didn’t hesitate. Tossing the key toward the dresser, he stalked toward her, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, deliberate movements, eyes locked on her like a predator who’d finally cornered his prey.

“Off,” he ordered, voice rough.

She lifted a brow at his tone, but played along, slipping one button free at a time, teasing flashes of skin. Her gaze never left his, drinking in the way his jaw flexed, the tension radiating from his shoulders.

He dropped into the desk chair, legs splayed, arms folded across his chest. “I can wait all night.”

“Really?” she purred, eyeing the visible bulge straining his jeans. She licked her lips, both to tease and to ease the sudden dryness of her mouth.

She peeled off her shirt and slowly unclasped her bra. His hand twitched, but he stayed seated, chest rising and falling faster.

“Stop,” he muttered, as if talking to himself more than her.

Power coursed through her. She shed the rest of her clothes, save for the scrap of lace between her thighs, and leaned back on her elbows. “Anytime, lover boy.”

That did it.

He surged from the chair and crawled onto the bed, bracing himself above her. His kiss was fierce, taking her mouth like a promise, like a claim. She met him head-on, tongue tangling with his, her hands tangling in his hair and sliding down to rake her nails over the hard planes of his back.

His body pressed against hers, hard and hot. She moaned as the roughness of his chest hair scraped her sensitive nipples, already pebbled and aching for more. Her hips rose instinctively, grinding into the pressure of his thigh nestled between her legs.

He trailed kisses along her throat, pausing to suck at the pulse point fluttering just below her jaw. She gasped, arching into him, desperate to feel him everywhere.

He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling deliberately around her nipples but never quite touching, a master of torture. She whimpered, tried to shift closer, but he held her down with maddening control.

Then finally—finally—his mouth closed around one nipple. She arched with a cry, hands flying to his shoulders. He licked and sucked while his hand tormented the other peak, tugging and rolling until she was squirming beneath him, wild with need.

She shoved at him, urging him lower, but he chuckled against her skin. “Patience.”

“Screw patience,” she gasped, dragging her nails down his back in protest.

He rewarded her with another deep suck, then began his descent, trailing kisses down her stomach, stopping to swirl his tongue around her navel before continuing.

She barely lifted her hips so he could pull her panties off, but he made a show of it—sliding them down, slow and sure, until they dropped to the floor.

He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, then another just above her center. She whimpered.

Then he licked her—one long, devastating stroke that made her cry out and clutch at the sheets. His tongue explored her with reverence and precision, every flick and circle pushing her closer to the edge. When he latched on to her clit and sucked, she shattered with a scream.

Her body trembled beneath him as he kissed her through the aftershocks, lips soft, hands gentle. When she finally caught her breath, her fingers still tangled in his hair, she managed a breathless whisper.

“Condom?”

He rose, unzipping and shedding the rest of his clothes in one smooth motion. His erection was hard, thick, proud—more beautiful than she could’ve imagined. He reached into his bag, pulled out a small pack, and tossed a few onto the bed.

She raised an eyebrow. “Confident much?”

“Prepared,” he said, voice raw.

When she reached for him, he stepped back. “Not this time. I won’t last.”

She smirked. “Then get over here before I take matters into my own hands.”

He rolled the condom on with shaking hands, then climbed back on the bed, positioning himself between her legs. He kissed her again, slow and deep, as he guided himself to her entrance.

She was still slick, still pulsing from her climax, and when he pushed inside, her body welcomed him with ease. She gasped, gripping his shoulders as he filled her inch by inch, until he was seated deep, their bodies locked together.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice more growl than words.

She nodded, tightening around him in answer.

He began to move, slow at first, then faster. Driving deep. Her hips met his thrust for thrust, desperate to keep up with the pounding rhythm. His name left her lips in a gasp as the heat built again, fast and fierce.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him to her, and he drove harder, deeper, until she shattered again, muscles clenching around him as she cried out. He thrust twice more before groaning her name and spilling into the condom, shaking above her.

He collapsed beside her, catching himself just in time to avoid crushing her. Their breaths mingled, ragged and stunned. She turned her head to look at him, brushing her fingertips over his cheek.

He kissed her palm, soft and reverent.

She sighed, a sleepy smile curving her lips as her eyes drifted closed.

This might only be one night—but she’d never forget it.

L ucas had woken her more than once throughout the night, his touch teasing and tender, insistent and reverent. Between tangled sheets and hushed gasps, they’d explored every inch of each other, over and over, until the first streaks of dawn painted the sky in soft gold and lavender.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed them, their bodies tangled and slick with sweat, wrapped in the delicious afterglow of everything they hadn’t dared want but couldn’t stop from taking.

Miranda woke first.

Her muscles ached in the most decadent way, the kind of soreness that came from being thoroughly and repeatedly worshipped. She stretched, slowly and luxuriously, relishing the feel of the sheets against her bare skin—and the heavy weight of Lucas’s arm draped possessively across her waist.

He was out cold. Deep, slow breathing. A faint snore escaping his parted lips. The corners of his mouth still curved like he’d gone to sleep smiling.

She turned her head to take him in.

Hair tousled. Jaw shadowed with scruff. One arm stretched above his head while the other still held her like he wasn’t ready to let her go.

Something about it hit her low in the chest. Too intimate. Too tempting.

She blinked at the clock on the nightstand and swore softly under her breath.

Shit .

She’d promised her father she’d call with a spring training update by eight. It was already seven-thirty and she had a full schedule—meetings, lineup checks, and player evaluations. He’d be waiting on that call, expecting her usual level of polish and precision.

She carefully eased out from beneath Lucas’s arm, moving like a woman trying to disarm a live grenade. He shifted but didn’t stir, his snore deepening.

Silently, she gathered the pieces of her wardrobe—skirt and blouse first, rumpled and abandoned like discarded intentions. She tiptoed into the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click.

Inside, she took a moment.

Her reflection stared back at her—lips swollen, hair wild, skin flushed with memory. She looked... satisfied. Raw. Like a woman who’d spent the night being adored.

She wasn’t even sure where her bra and panties had ended up. Somewhere along the foot of the bed? Tangled in the sheets? Or maybe Lucas had pocketed them like a trophy. She smirked at the thought.

Later.

For now, she needed to make it back to her room before the rest of the world started knocking.

She dressed quickly, smoothing her blouse and tucking it into her skirt with practiced efficiency, trying to erase the evidence of the night while her body still pulsed with it.

When she opened the bathroom door, Lucas hadn’t moved.

He lay sprawled across the bed, all golden skin and long limbs, his arm reaching for her in his sleep.

Her bag sat near the table by the door, right where she vaguely remembered tossing it after that first kiss that had turned into everything. She grabbed it, slinging the strap over her shoulder.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob.

It would be easy—too easy—to crawl back into bed and kiss him awake, to let his hands roam her body and start again from where they left off.

But this wasn’t the time.

She gave him one last lingering look, her gaze tracing the line of his back, the curve of his mouth, the way he exhaled like he was dreaming of her. Her chest tightened.

Then she slipped out, pulling the door quietly shut behind her with a soft, final click.

Back to reality.

L ucas stayed perfectly still, barely breathing, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he listened to the faint rustle of fabric, the whisper of soft footsteps.

His heartbeat thudded in slow, measured beats, trained from years of holding his expression through negotiations, losses, and now—sex that felt like so much more than it should.

Then the door closed behind her with a soft snick .

He exhaled.

Dragging a hand down his face, he sat up, the sheets slipping off his hips as cool air rushed against his skin.

The bed still smelled like her—warm skin, lavender shampoo, the sharp hint of arousal.

He let it linger a moment before swinging his legs over the edge and scrubbing both hands through his hair.

They should talk.

That was the adult thing to do. The right thing.

But part of him—okay, a big part—was pathetically relieved she’d slipped out without forcing the dreaded morning-after conversation. He had no idea what he would’ve said anyway. How do you explain a night like that?

His past relationships were always easier. Clean breaks. The usual script—clothes gathered, polite murmurs of let’s do this again sometime that no one believed, and then someone exited the scene before the other could say something real.

But last night?

Last night had blown the damn stadium lights out.

He’d known Miranda had fire beneath her polished surface—he’d seen the embers in her eyes every time they argued across a boardroom table or stood too close in dugout meetings—but he hadn’t expected this.

The way she melted for him. The way she took control, gave it back, then demanded it again.

The way her body responded to every touch like it had been waiting for him alone.

And all of it, wrapped up in the woman who challenged him at every turn, who matched him step for step and never backed down.

He’d wanted this time away from the field. No expectations. No pressure. No whispers about front office politics or ownership ambitions. Just a chance to see who they really were—without the scoreboard or press releases in the way.

And now that he had? He wasn’t sure how to go back to pretending nothing had shifted.

This was usually the part where panic set in. The moment the intimacy turned too sharp and he had to pull back. That instinct to retreat, to preserve control, to keep it casual—that was always his tell.

But today?

There was no panic. No itch to disappear.

Only a slow, heavy pull in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t let himself entertain in a long time.

Like he’d come home.

At first, he’d thought it was about returning to Savannah—the streets he’d grown up on, the ballpark smells, the nostalgia. But it wasn’t the city grounding him.

It was her.

Miranda made him feel like he belonged. Like he didn’t have to prove anything or be anyone other than himself.

He found himself gravitating toward her office, making excuses to see her, to touch base, to linger.

He liked the way she challenged him, how she called him out and didn’t flinch.

She brought him down to earth and lit him on fire in the same breath.

He liked her.

Hell, he more than liked her.

But how did she feel?

Had last night been just heat and adrenaline for her? A release after a long day and too many nights of tension? Or had it meant something more?

He stared at the space where she’d been lying just hours ago, the pillow still indented, the sheets twisted.

Was it just sex for her?

Or had she felt it too—that subtle, terrifying, exhilarating shift from want to need?

He didn’t know. But he intended to find out.