Was being with him worth the risk that someone at the Pinnacle—like Orin—would find out? Or that Trevor would interrupt them? Or even just the awkwardness of seeing him around the building after she became a notch on his bedpost? That last wasn’t fair. He would treat her with unfailing courtesy after tonight . . . if she ever encountered him again.

“The playing field is all ours.” Luke came toward her with that ground-eating stride of his. As she let her gaze drift over the shimmer of his golden hair, the burn of his blue eyes, and the hard male perfection of his chest and thighs, all her concerns evaporated like morning mist on a sunny day.

She wanted to peel off his T-shirt and jeans, trace her fingers over the lines of muscle and tendon, and feel him moving within her.

She trotted down the hall to meet him halfway. Running her hands up under the fabric of his T-shirt to feel his warm skin, she murmured, “Make me stop thinking.”

Hunger flared in his eyes. “Inside,” he growled.

He spun her around, swept her through the gym door, and turned to lock it. She took a quick survey of the room. Only one row of the overhead lights was on, casting a low-level glow over various machines constructed of stainless steel, metal cables, and black vinyl cushions.

He did a brief scan, too, before he grabbed her hand and led her to a massage table, also covered in padded black vinyl. Before she could move, he had grasped her waist in his big hands and lifted her onto the end of the cushiony table. If the effort hurt him, she saw no sign of it.

Then he was pushing her knees apart to stand between her thighs. “I want your skin,” he said, as he pulled the hem of her top upward. “Lift your arms.”

She obeyed and felt the soft fabric skim up her arms and over her hands before he flung it away. He snaked his hands around her to flick open the hooks of her bra again. “Practice makes perfect,” she said, trying to counteract the intensity of her reaction to his touch.

He threaded his fingers under the straps and slowly pulled them down, his focus locked on the curve of her breasts as he uncovered them. “So beautiful,” he muttered and then snatched the bra off and tossed it into the corner, too. His hands went back to her breasts, and she nearly forgot what she wanted as his palms pushed against the sensitive nipples. But she wrapped her fingers around his wrists, feeling the unyielding power in them as she tried to pull them away from her. “I want skin, too,” she said, giving up on trying to move his hands, and reaching for the hem of his shirt instead. She tugged upward, exposing the rippled planes of his abdomen.

“Just like the statues,” she said, with a sharp inhalation. As she pulled the fabric farther upward, she saw the spread of dark bruising. But human and vulnerable to pain.

“Fair’s fair,” he said, releasing her. He crossed his arms, grabbed the bottom of his shirt, and yanked it up over his head, leaving his hair delightfully mussed. The shirt followed her clothes, and then he bent to take one of her nipples in his mouth, making her forget about his injury.

The hot, moist friction of his tongue sent a wave of arousal crashing through her body. She buried her fingers in the satin of his hair when he drew on her, the suction making her whimper. He moved to her other breast, his hands warm and slightly rough against the bare skin of her back as he pressed her into his mouth. The moment of respite let her run her fingers down through his hair to glide along the curving muscles of his shoulders and back. When he scraped the edge of his teeth around her nipple, she dug her fingers into his shoulder blades, arching against him on the exquisite balance of pain and pleasure.

Desire seared through her like tropical sunlight, blinding and hot. She wanted him inside her with a fierceness that unnerved her. Seeking his belt buckle, she dragged her hands down his chest and stomach. She felt the contractions ripple through his muscles wherever she touched him. He straightened away from her, but his gaze was downward, watching her hands on his skin.

As she scrabbled for his belt, her hand brushed against the denim-covered ridge of his erection. A hiss came from between his clenched teeth, and he took the end of his belt from her to unfasten it with one swift jerk. He wrenched the button out of its hole and hauled the zipper down before reaching into his back pocket and producing a foil envelope.

“I’ll bet you were an Eagle Scout.” Miranda took the condom from him and laid it on the table beside her so she could fumble at the button of her trousers.

“Let me.” He opened her pants in two swift movements. “Lie back on the table,” he ordered before he worked her trousers and panties over her hips as she arched up. He yanked them down to her ankles while she toed off her shoes.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze skimming over her naked body. He shoved the waistband of his briefs down and freed his cock.

Miranda ran her fingers along the hard length of him, pulling a low groan from his throat. Then she ripped open the envelope and rolled the condom on.

He started to push at his jeans, but she shook her head. “I like that look.”

His smile was tight. “If you like it, you got it, sugar. Because I sure like your look.”

His hands were on her thighs, pushing them wider apart. She leaned back on her hands, slanting her hips up to give him easier access. She kept her gaze on his face, where a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. His grip tightened, and she felt the head of his cock against her, pressing slowly into the slippery heat between her legs. “You are so ready,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” she gasped as he pushed inside, stretching her, filling the hollow ache.