Page 26

Chapter

Nineteen

A knock at the door startled Miranda, jerking her hand mid-pour and splashing wine across her wrist. She blinked down at the spill, then raised her hand, tongue darting out to lick the crimson streak from her skin.

Her heart pounded so hard it thudded in her ears.

She forced herself to take a steadying breath and smoothed her palms down the front of her robe.

The whisper of silk over her flushed, hypersensitive skin only heightened her arousal, the soft glide of fabric over stiffened nipples sending another electric shiver through her.

Two hours of anticipation had turned her into a live wire.

Her body buzzed with restless energy, every nerve ending tuned to the moment.

Her nipples ached with want, tight as glass beads beneath the whisper-thin silk.

Between her thighs, she throbbed in time with her heartbeat, already clenching at the thought of Lucas on the other side of the door.

The second knock landed like a thunderclap. Her breath caught. Her thighs flexed instinctively, as if her body recognized his presence before her brain did.

She gripped the back of the armchair to steady herself, but calming down wasn’t an option. Not tonight.

She walked slowly to the door, bare feet silent on the hardwood, body humming with anticipation. She didn’t check the peephole—lust had short-circuited her caution—but she knew it was him. Had to be.

She cracked the door open, staying in the shadowed entryway.

Lucas leaned against the frame, exuding tightly coiled restraint. His jaw was clenched, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand. The moment he saw her, his gaze swept over her in a heated wave. His pupils flared. His nostrils flared. His whole body seemed to tense and ignite.

“Damn, Miranda.” His voice was rough, low, almost guttural.

He pushed inside, kicking the door closed behind him and twisting the lock with a hard, deliberate snick. “I said naked. A robe—no matter how fucking sexy—doesn’t count.”

A smile teased her lips, equal parts shy and wicked. Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she let the robe slip from her shoulders and fall in a silent pool of silk around her feet.

“Is this better?”

Lucas didn’t answer with words. He dropped the wine bottle onto the end table with a thud and reached for her, dragging her into his arms.

“Yes,” he growled against her mouth.

They came together in a fevered rush, mouths crashing, limbs tangling. He hoisted her effortlessly, pinning her against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms sliding around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

His kiss was raw, consuming—two hours of tension and unsatisfied hunger unleashed at once.

He devoured her mouth, then trailed open-mouthed kisses down her neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against her skin.

Her head fell back as he worked lower, his lips skimming over her clavicle, then the swell of her breasts.

He flicked his tongue along the soft curve, then took one taut nipple between his lips and sucked hard.

She cried out, a gasp of surprise and pleasure. Her back arched into him, fingers fisting in his shirt.

“Wait,” she gasped, trying to find her voice through the haze of want. “Not here. Down there.”

She pointed toward the hallway with a trembling hand.

He followed her gaze and nodded, breathing heavily. “One floor? Thank God.”

Still holding her close, he carried her toward the bedroom—toward whatever came next—his eyes locked on hers, blazing with a promise she felt all the way down to her bones.

And in her heart, she knew—tonight wouldn’t just be a release.

It would be a reckoning.

M iranda stretched luxuriously, a satisfied moan escaping her lips as warmth and delicious soreness radiated through her limbs.

Forget yoga or spinning class—sex was hands-down the best workout.

No gym membership, no fighting over ellipticals, just tangled sheets, breathless kisses, and full-body satisfaction. And she got to stay in bed. Total win.

She reached out to the other side of the mattress, fingers brushing rumpled sheets. Cool to the touch.

Her hand stilled.

When had he left?

A pang of disappointment flared in her chest, sharper than she wanted to admit.

She blinked up at the ceiling, pushing away the weight that pressed down on her chest. Maybe it was karma—just a mirror of what she'd done in Florida. Sneak away before emotions tangled and attachments formed. Maybe she’d finally met her match in the disappearing act.

She sank back into the pillow and closed her eyes, trying to dismiss the disappointment. The day after Opening Day was always a rest day for the players, but business side staff still worked—albeit on a delayed schedule. Perks of being the boss: she didn’t have to be in early.

A sound from down the hallway pulled her from her thoughts. Her brows furrowed. That wasn’t the usual creak of settling wood or distant traffic.

Yawning, she swung her legs out of bed, pulled on her robe, and padded barefoot down the hallway. She stopped short in the kitchen entry.

Lucas stood at the stove, barefoot, shirtless, clad only in jeans slung obscenely low on his hips.

His back was to her, muscles shifting with every movement as he opened cabinet doors and muttered to himself.

Golden morning light slanted across his skin, highlighting the faint red claw marks raked down his back.

Relief hit her so hard it was almost dizzying.

“The pans are under the stove,” she offered, her voice husky with sleep—and something far warmer.

He jumped slightly, then looked over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. “Busted. I was hoping to have breakfast started before you woke up. Did I wake you?”

As he bent to check the cabinet, the waistband of his jeans slipped lower, exposing the start of the cleft of his ass. Her cheeks flamed.

“I should probably trim my nails,” she murmured.

He huffed a laugh and pulled out a pan.

She moved to perch on one of the barstools, folding her arms on the counter and resting her chin there. A moment of silence stretched between them, thick with the question she didn’t want to ask.

“I thought you’d left,” she said quietly.

He paused, pan in hand, but didn’t look at her right away. “I almost had to—if I couldn’t find the damn pans.” He turned back with a wink. “Good thing you stock your fridge.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He set the pan on the burner, the metallic clink loud in the quiet space. Then, after a pause, he crossed the small space to her, cupped her face gently in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones.

“If you want me to leave, say the word. But I’d rather stay.”

He leaned in and kissed her, soft and sweet—a contrast to the urgency of the night before. It barely lasted a heartbeat, but it lingered like a promise.

She reached for him, fingers curling around his forearm, pulling him back in—but he stepped away with a crooked smile.

“No more of that if you want to eat.”

She slid off the stool, teasing, “What can I do?”

“Nothing.” He slid a cup of tea across the bar like a practiced barista. “At least you keep your kettle where it belongs. Now sit, sip, and relax.”

A little unsure of her footing now—emotionally, not physically—she sipped her tea and watched him move through the kitchen. There was something intimate about it. A man like Lucas—who thrived on travel, change, and control—fitting so easily into her space.

“You know your way around a kitchen,” she mused. “Not what I expected from a guy who lives out of a suitcase.”

“I’m with most teams for a few months at a time. Hotels get old fast. Most teams work with short-term housing companies for traded players—quiet, furnished, private. It's easier than room service every night.”

She nodded slowly. “Sounds... lonely. Do you ever hang out with people from the office? Wait, never mind. You don’t get involved.”

Her words were light, teasing, but they hung in the air between them.

He didn’t miss the undercurrent. He laid a bowl of fruit in front of her with a casual smile. “Not like here, no. But I stay busy.”

“Do you?” she challenged gently. “Or do you keep yourself busy? Constant motion’s a great way to avoid connection.”

She popped a blueberry into her mouth, watching him closely. “So... do you have a girl in every city?”

He arched a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips as he folded the omelet with practiced ease. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Just trying to get to know you,” she said softly. “And maybe figure out who I’m up against.”

He turned, expression serious now. “If you wanted to ask if I date around, you could’ve just asked.”

“I did,” she replied simply. “I’m sleeping with you. Seems fair to want to know who else is in the rotation.”

He plated the omelet, split it, and slid a dish in front of her before pulling out the other stool and settling beside her.

“I wouldn’t be in your bed if there was someone else in mine.”

She took a bite—and moaned. “Oh wow. That’s ridiculously good. Or maybe I’m just starving.”

“Could be both,” he said, a bit smugly.

They ate in companionable quiet, the clink of forks against ceramic filling the space between unspoken thoughts.

When the plates were cleared, she stood to collect the dishes.

“You cooked, I’ll clean.”

“You have a dishwasher. That’s the easy part.”

She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “Fine, you can do the dishes too. Want more coffee?”

He held up his mug and she refilled it from the carafe, then poured herself another cup of tea. She sat again, but the quiet between them had shifted. The relaxed morning air now held a coiled tension beneath it, like static before a summer storm.

She bit her lower lip. “So...”

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Want to save water and shower together?”

She let out a breathless laugh, tension melting from her shoulders. God, she loved how he knew exactly when not to push. “Race you,” she said, already off the stool and headed down the hall.

The chase was back on.