Page 64 of The Knockout Rule

Could she really do this? Get a handle on her anxiety and date a boxer?

“I like that plan,” she said, her voice stronger than she’d expected. This was happening. It would happen. She’d be as brave as Eric and make a massive change in her life. Keep opening up to others and face her biggest fears.

He licked his full lips, looked at hers. More tingles erupted across her skin. If she wanted, she could fist the front of his shirt, drag him closer, taste him again. But giving into her desire wouldn’t serve her. Getting too close too fast could instigate a panic attack before she’d found ways to better control her anxiety. She touched him, though. Trailed a finger down the length of his biceps.

The big man shuddered and blew out a ragged breath. “You’re going to make this waiting painful, aren’t you?”

She felt like a water dam about to crack. “What were you going to say, through Preston on our date, before you shut him out?”

He frowned as though he didn’t know what she was referring to, then he said, “I know your dark eyes remind me of the horizon as the moon rises on a cloudless night, and I know you twitch your nose before you laugh. I also know how you taste and I can’t go to sleep without thinking about the shape of your lips or the way your tongue felt sliding against mine.”

Good Lord. Bad Lord. All the Lords.

Her belly tightened, heat flooding south.

“So,” she said quickly, slipping out from between him and the treatment table. Now was not the time to turn into a pile of turned-on goo. Eric’s fight loomed larger than ever. She desperately wanted him to win, and she had a part to play in his fitness. “Let’s get to work. We’ll focus on plyometrics—jumping exercises to push your Achilles. We need you in fighting form.”

He watched her a moment, a slow smile spreading. “Just tell me what you want me to do.” His voice was all honey and gravel, the simple statement hiding a world of innuendo.

If they weren’t working, and she wasn’t scared of having an episode, she’d tell him exactly what she wanted: to feel his hands sliding over her damp skin, digging into her hips, guiding her while he thrust so hard and deep she shattered into a million pieces. “Box jumps,” she said, hoarse. “We’ll start with those.”

His chest expanded on a deep inhale. “I’m all in.”

They somehow got to work, fell into their easy rhythm. She shouldn’t be surprised. Eric was a professional athlete. If anything, he seemed more focused than usual, regardless of the sexual tension vibrating between them.

“Focus on your knees,” she said as he jumped. “They’re collapsing in as you take off. Drive them out shoulder-width apart.”

He nodded, pushed through his last five jumps, fixing his positioning as he went.

“Rock star,” she said on his final landing.

Breathing hard, he smiled and walked toward her, grabbed his towel from the bench at her right. Where they’d given each other a wide berth while he exercised recently, he stood mere inches away now. Heat poured off him, his short breaths puffing up his chest.

“What’s next, boss?” He held his ground, not moving closer, but making it clear he intended to test her boundaries, invade her space, her heart.

Out of nowhere, she blinked, saw a sudden image of him in the ring, his rough breathing turning harsher. Joe Bradley’s fist sinking into Eric’s ribs.

Her pulse rocketed, then Eric’s knuckles were gliding down her arm, a soft brush—achingly tender—and the image vanished. All she saw was this incredible man, staring down at her with unrestrained emotion. His desire was clear in the heavy fall of his eyelids, but there was more swirling in those gray depths. The word cherish came to mind. Amazing, how quickly he could ground her, the lightest touch banishing her worries and lighting up her skin.

“Diagonal single leg hops,” she said, back to being fluttery and overwhelmed with how badly she wanted to kiss him. “A zig-zag pattern over the taped line on the floor.”

He didn’t move right away. Just stared at her, his lips parting slightly. She wasn’t sure what vibes she was giving off, but her body felt like it was a pheromone factory, every breath projecting the extent of her desire.

“Leg hops, it is,” he finally said. He tossed his towel on the bench, crowded her as he moved, his huge hand landing on her lower back. “After you.”

God, his voice did things to her. Thirst things. Molten-lava things, with nothing but a couple low-spoken words. Her belly did a delicious spin, and she couldn’t resist one small move toward him, an angled twist that brought her lips toward his neck. She pressed a kiss to his damp skin, stole the tiniest taste of salt and Eric and everything she wanted.

He grunted, the pressure of his hand increasing briefly, then he stepped away. “You’re testing all my strength today.”

“Should I stop?”

“You better not.”

Right, then.

In unison, they spun and strutted toward the taped line on the floor, a simultaneous decision to get to work. And they did. Eric pushed himself through his exercises, once again switching to athlete mode, his single-mindedness the reason he was a heavyweight contender. Occasionally, he’d brush against her—a subtle press of his hand on her hip, a drag of his fingers along her skin as he grabbed his water bottle or towel—and heat would flood her body. But they worked hard, the familiar routine reminding her how fantastic they were together: they could rein in their sexual tension, support each other professionally. Give each other the best of themselves so they both thrived.

They finished on the treatment table, as usual. Ultrasound for his rotator cuff this time. He was more relaxed, his legs sprawled slightly apart, contentment on his face. “I like this part,” he said.