Miranda laid her hand against his cheek, feeling the prickle of stubble on her palm. “Because you can be trusted.”

He moved to close his lips over her fingertip, applying the tiniest bit of suction. “I want to devour you,” he said, his voice rough like gravel.

“And I want to touch every inch of you.” She pulled her finger away from his mouth to follow a tendon in his neck down to the hollow at the base of his throat and then across his clavicle. That’s when she noticed an array of scars on his shoulder. “What are these?”

“Surgical scars. Minor stuff to fix up my throwing arm.” He took her wandering hand in his and started toward the makeshift bed. “You collect those over time.”

She hated to think what a toll the violence of football took on his magnificent body.

He helped her down onto the piled mats and pulled the blanket over them. She snuggled against his chest, facing him this time. “How many times have you been sacked in your career?”

“That’s too much math for me to do when you’ve reduced my brain to pulp.”

A glow of satisfaction blossomed in her. She’d had as powerful an effect on him as he’d had on her.

He resettled them so his arm pillowed her head and one of his legs lay crooked over her hip. “I’m feeling mellow enough for another nap,” he said, closing his eyes.

Freed of his gaze, she let her eyes roam over the perfection of his face. This close she noticed small scars there, too: one cutting through the outer end of his eyebrow, one at the jut of his chin, and one near his ear. Instead of marring his beauty, they gave it a sexy edge.

In one day Luke Archer had gone from being a giant icon she admired on a billboard to a living, breathing human being. And the truth was, she was lying here naked with him after one day together because she knew this would be her only chance to be so close to him. He would go back to his fame and wealth and football, and she would go back to being an assistant concierge.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said.

His eyelids snapped open.

“It’s nothing bad.” She stroked her hand down his suddenly tense back.

“Go ahead.”

“I didn’t do, er, this because you’re a famous quarterback,” she said. “I did it because after spending the day with you, I liked you as a person. Well, more than liked.” She took a breath. “I don’t expect anything more, and I won’t tell anyone this happened.”

Ice formed in his eyes, and his smile turned hard. “So we’re back to the concierge code.”

Luke knew he should be grateful. The woman in his arms had just said everything he usually wanted to hear. Instead, he was pissed off that she thought he’d screwed her because he was a famous athlete. Or that she’d screwed him because he was a famous athlete. Or whatever she’d just said.

Because she gave him a sense of himself as something other than a football player. She’d said it: she made him feel appreciated as a person. But now she was treating him as the quarterback again.

This was ridiculous. Why was he getting bent out of shape because Miranda was making valid assumptions about his intentions? No rings, no strings. She was being realistic, and he was being an asshole.

“What if I expect something more?” he asked, using the leverage of his leg to pull her in closer to him.

“You want more from me?” The astonishment in her voice fanned the flames of his anger.

He slid his hand down to the luscious curve of her behind and squeezed lightly. “I’ve made it clear that I’ve enjoyed today. All of it.”

“Yes, but you could have any . . . well, I’m just . . .”

He let her stammer to a halt. “Do you think because you’re a concierge I would just screw you and send you home?”

He felt her flinch as though he had smacked her. He who prided himself on never hitting a woman had just lashed out at her verbally.

“I’m trying to manage my own expectations.”

“Which are not very high.” He moved his hand up her back to twirl a strand of her thick shiny hair around his finger because he couldn’t resist.

“I was afraid you might have the wrong idea about me,” she said. “I don’t usually jump into bed—or onto a weight bench—the first time I go out with a man. You could easily think I was just a—a football groupie.”

That defused some of his anger. “Not a chance of that, sugar. No self-respecting football groupie would turn down tickets on the fifty-yard line.”

He felt her breasts press against his chest as she sighed.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow night,” he said, before all the reasons he shouldn’t ask her stopped him.

“Seriously?”

He couldn’t decide if happy or astonished described her tone better. “Yes.” He tried to see her expression, but she’d angled her head downward on his arm.

“Shouldn’t you spend some time with your brother?” Her voice was heavy with regret.

He thought of Trevor’s response when he’d invited him to DaShawn’s retirement party—I have nothing to talk about with a bunch of jocks.

“Trevor’s here on business. He’s got other things to do,” Luke said.

Her softly curved body shifted against him, making his cock start to harden. “Thank you, but it’s not a good idea,” she said.

That killed his arousal. “Why not?”