He held her in place up against the door so he could withdraw and drive into her. It was primal and powerful and made her beg him to do it again. She teetered on an exquisite balance of yearning emptiness and fierce fullness. The contrast made her grind her hips into his for more.

He obliged, moving faster, filling her more completely, until she locked her arms around his neck, closed her eyes, and let him take her wherever he was going. Sensations swirled inside her like a kaleidoscope: the unyielding wood at her back, the controlling grip of his fingers on her thighs, the husky warmth of his breath on her cheek, the wool of his tux on her bared skin, the stretch and thrust of him moving inside her. Her need tightened down in her belly until he flexed his hips at exactly the right angle, and everything inside her burst into a perfect storm of contraction and release and pure, elemental satisfaction. She threw her head back, knocking it against the door, and shouted his name.

Her orgasm ignited his. He drove into her and stopped, suspended for a moment before he pulsed and arched back from where they were joined, her name tearing from his throat.

The force of his climax sent more tremors through her, a ripple of pleasure tugging at already sated muscles. She sighed into him, her head dropping onto his shoulder.

His iron grip on her thighs eased as he let his weight hold her up against the door. His chest expanded against hers when he drew in a long, shuddering breath. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flew open and she lifted her head. “Sorry?” She tried to see his expression, but he was resting his forehead against the door beside her cheek.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take more time with you.” Regret laced his voice.

She let her head drop onto his shoulder again. “In case you didn’t notice, I beat you to the finish.”

He was silent for a moment before she both felt and heard a chuckle rumble up from his chest. “You’re a mite competitive.”

“This is a win-win situation,” she said. “We both get a prize.”

“Sugar, you are the prize.” His weight shifted and he slid out of her. “I’m going to let you down slow now.”

“That’s good, because I think my legs might fold up under me.”

He eased them both away from the door and set her down on the floor as gently as though she were made of fine crystal. Her knees wobbled, and she clutched at his lapels while he kept his hands firmly around her waist to support her. She looked up to find his pale eyes warm with something she might have called happiness. It transformed his face, gentling the angles and softening his implacable will. “Want me to carry you?”

“Yes, but I’m going to walk,” she said, remembering his injury.

He released her and turned away while she scrambled back into her panties and jeans, the lightest touch of the fabric against her still-sensitive clitoris making her suck in a quick breath. She watched Luke zip his trousers, leaving the tails of his tux shirt hanging out.

It was surreal to see this huge, gorgeous man in the midst of her ordinary apartment. She crossed her arms and wondered what to do next. They’d already cut to the chase. “Would you like a drink? Wine? Coffee?”

“I’m good.” He glanced around, and she wondered what he thought of her exposed-brick wall, the built-in bookcases she and her brother had spent a weekend constructing, and the scarred but lovingly polished parquet floor. “This is a nice place,” he said.

“Not quite the penthouse, but I’m content here.”

He walked to the bookcase to examine her reproduction of a Degas horse sculpture before he pivoted to meet her eyes. “It’s like you. Warm and elegant.”

“Elegant?” She raised her eyebrows and glanced around. Maybe the small Oriental area rug in tones of burgundy and blue was elegant. And the bronze-and-crystal Victorian chandelier she’d found in a consignment shop might qualify. The rest was just comfortable. “It’s home.”

His expression darkened at her last word. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why don’t you have a seat and tell me why?” She wanted to keep him there, so she waved toward the sofa she loved so much. It was upholstered in a subtle, cream basket-weave pattern that she’d found marked down in a high-end fabric store.

He held out his hand. “Sit with me.”

She put her hand in his and let him help her onto one of the plump cushions. When he settled beside her, she snuggled into his uninjured side. “I’m glad you’re here, so why shouldn’t you be?”

The arm he had draped around her tightened. “Because my brother is an asshole.”

“I’m not getting the connection.” She felt the tension in his body and rubbed her palm in circles on his chest to ease it, stroking the fine, soft cotton of his shirt.

A sigh expanded his ribs. “When I got home from the gala, Trevor was throwing a party at my place. That was a jerk move, but I could have swallowed it. However, he broke the cardinal rule. There were drugs.”

Miranda let all the implications of that circle through her brain. Now she knew why they’d had fast, hard door sex, and why he’d apologized for it. Luke was venting his anger at his brother. “So you needed to get out immediately and find someplace else to go.”

“Yeah, where there was someone who would corroborate that I wasn’t at the party to take the drugs, in case the press gets wind of it. I have a good friend cleaning up Trevor’s mess, so I don’t think it will be an issue, but I shouldn’t have involved you.”