“Seriously, I shouldn’t be on top of you.”

He tightened his hold. “You make the best kind of blanket.”

His big body radiated warmth like a giant heating pad. “You can’t possibly be cold.”

“Not yet.”

She stopped arguing because she liked the feel of her breasts compressed against his chest and the way his thigh rode between her legs. She enjoyed the ropes of his arms across her back. Her head rose and fell gently with his breathing, and his heartbeat thumped in her ear. His body was so hard that it made her feel very female and soft by contrast. Her muscles were fluid and relaxed, almost as though she had melted over him.

Her eyelids had drifted closed when a loud rumble made her start. “Was that your stomach?”

“Yeah. Ignore it.” He sounded embarrassed, which she found funny.

She remembered that she hadn’t eaten dinner, either. “I’m a little hungry, too.”

“As soon as I can bring myself to let you go, I’ll fix us some quesadillas.”

She nestled into him again. “You can play football and cook. Wow.”

“Quesadillas are not cooking. Anyone can throw some meat, cheese, and salsa on a tortilla and heat it up. Mine are only good because my housekeeper, Carmen, makes the salsa and the guac from scratch.”

The thought of fresh guacamole made Miranda’s stomach mutter.

He chuckled. “It’s a chorus.” He helped her roll off him and onto her feet.

She turned to watch him rise from the couch in a ripple of muscle and sinew that took her breath away. “You should really let an artist sculpt a nude statue of you.”

“Yeah, my teammates wouldn’t give me too much grief about that.”

She stepped close to him and traced a ridge of muscle in his lower abdomen. “It’s just that your body reminds me of the Greek and Roman statues at the Met.” She followed the muscle downward. “Only better, because you’re warm and alive. And I get to touch you.”

She heard the hiss of his breath and lifted her head. He had a strange look on his face, a mixture of disbelief, pleasure, and arousal.

“Why do you see me so differently from everyone else?” he asked.

“I can’t be the only one who thinks your body is a work of art.”

His gaze followed her finger as she drew it upward along the clearly defined line in the center of his torso. “My coach sees it as a useful tool. My trainer sees it as something to be whipped into shape. Most women see it as—well, let’s just say they’ve never called it art.”

“How do you see it?” She couldn’t believe he didn’t have any idea of his physical perfection.

“Necessary for my job.”

Chapter 22

Luke seized her hand and started toward the kitchen. “Let’s eat.” He swung around as he felt Miranda pulling back against his forward motion.

“I’m not eating naked,” she said.

“Well, damn.” Disappointment rolled through him as he bent to snag his flannel shirt off the floor. He loved the way her bare breasts quivered as she walked on those spike-heeled boots. He handed the shirt to her with reluctance. As she buttoned it up, he grabbed his jeans.

“Hey, I didn’t say you couldn’t eat naked.” Miranda gave him a lascivious smile.

“The chef needs protection,” he said as he pulled them on, leaving the button undone so they rode low on his hips.

She dropped her gaze to his crotch. “We definitely don’t want to damage anything down there.”

Grinning, he wrapped his arm around her waist to hold her against him as he walked them toward the kitchen. Her hair was a riot of tangled waves and smelled like some kind of flowers when he dipped his head to inhale. He splayed his hand over her hip just to have another point of contact with the soft heat of her.

Despite his hunger, he’d wanted to lie on that couch with her hot little body draped over his for the rest of the night. Or until he could make love to her again.

He stopped in front of one of the high stools by the counter and lifted her onto the leather seat, provoking a startled Oh from her and a twinge from his bruises. A smile twitched at his lips as she yanked down the shirt his hands had rucked up.

“Stop smirking,” she said, but she was smiling back. She crossed her legs and started to pull at one of her spike-heeled boots.

“Let me.”

She moved her foot away from his hands. “No tickling.”

He easily caught her foot and straightened her leg out in front of her. “Okay, Cinderella.” Slipping the boot off her slender foot, he kneaded the high curve of her arch with his thumbs.

“Ah,” she said, her head falling back and her eyes closing. “Another talent to add to your long list.”

He worked the boot off her other foot and gave it the same treatment. He savored the feel of her skin, the subtlety of her pale pink nail polish, and the little sound she made in the back of her throat, like a cat purring.

“You enjoy being touched.”

Surprise showed in her eyes. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He thought of several women he’d dated who disliked having their hair mussed or their lipstick smeared. Miranda looked delightfully disheveled and didn’t care. She was good with him looking disheveled, too. “You’d be surprised.”

She considered that a moment. She did that a lot: listened to what he had to say and thought about it. “I guess not everyone can handle that kind of intimacy. It must be hard to feel so separate from the people you love.”