Page 73 of The Knockout Rule

They glanced at Graham, who was still standing at his door.

Eric laughed. “Goodnight, Graham.” To the protective man’s daughter, he said quietly, “Visit later if you want. If not, I understand.”

He wanted to lean down, capture her lips in a blistering kiss, but a heavyweight champ was giving him the evil eye, and they weren’t in private. He slipped his extra keycard into her hand and left the ball in her court.

23

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three my-body-is-an-inferno-of-want Mississippi.

How long was a woman supposed to wait before sneaking into a man’s room? One hour? Two? Five?

Hour two was nearing, and Isla felt like her teenage self about to sneak out her window to visit Tommy Semper, the too-old-for-her crush who’d invited her to a house party. She’d followed her fragile sixteen-year-old heart that night, had showed up at the raucous gathering, only to catch Tommy with his tongue down Tanya Crowley’s throat. Even worse, her father had been waiting in her room upon her return to rub salt and a grounding in her brokenhearted wound.

Her father may be down the hall now, but there’d be no grounding or reprimand tonight. She was an adult. Eric wanted her. She wanted him.

She may not have liked hearing Eric mention the Joe Bradley fight at the end of their night, but she hadn’t hit full panic mode. When the first hints of rapid breathing had struck, she’d replayed a conversation with her therapist, how her fears were tightly woven with her mother’s abandonment and dismissal. Isla had assumed boxing was the source of her anxiety. The brutality of the sport. This new insight changed her perspective, shone a brighter light on the shape of her issues. She hadn’t panicked over the Bradley comment as roughly as she might have in the past. She was ready to risk more with Eric.

She tightened her bathrobe’s sash, loved the sexy feel of the lingerie beneath. Like she was a seductive siren, not a physiotherapist who spent most of her days in yoga pants and runners. She and Heather had visited a fancy store before dinner, where Heather had picked out the cherry-red set of garters and lacy pieces, saying, “The man’s face will melt off when he sees you in this.”

Isla liked Eric’s face where it was, but she was buzzing with nerves and excitement to see his reaction. She was already turned on, imagining his hands sliding up her thighs, plucking at her garters. The snap of lace against her skin. Her whole body clenched.

Tired of waiting, she opened her door slightly, poked her head out. A couple was walking from the elevator, their arms hooked around each other. They stumbled, smiling and laughing intimately, and stopped to kiss between two rooms. The man pressed the woman to the wall, pushed his hand up her shirt, kissed her hard while she snaked her leg around his thigh, dragging him closer. Isla nearly moaned.

If she was turned on before, she was about to combust now.

The man rolled his hips into the woman, hitched her leg higher while she grabbed his ass. Then he tore away and tugged her to a hotel door, fumbling with his keycard before they stumbled inside.

Isla tensed her abs, unsure she could make it the short walk to Eric’s room without needing to stop and relieve the ache between her thighs. She hurried to his door, paused, and fluffed her hair. A swipe of his gifted keycard later, she walked into Eric’s room.

And heard snorting.

Whit ran over to her, his stubby face pushing into her leg. She hadn’t factored an excited dog into her seductions, and there was no avoiding the dog’s enthusiastic demands. She crouched and rubbed his neck, practically falling over from Whit’s exuberance.

“He likes you,” Eric said. His voice was low and gravelly, coming from the direction of his room.

She looked up. One lamp was lit, casting his bare chest in seductive shadows. His shoulders somehow looked wider, his arms strong enough to lift cars. In nothing but tight briefs, his massive thighs framed the thick line of his cock. She fell unceremoniously on her butt.

Whit, of course, took advantage of her position and licked her arm and neck. She laughed, tried to fend off the slobbery onslaught.

Eric laughed, too. Then he whistled and sternly said, “Bed.”

That one word had Isla wanting to obey Eric. Sprawl on his bed. Let him have his way with her. She stayed on her butt, but Whit obliged his master and trotted over to his dog bed, lying down with a grunty groan.

Eric walked closer to Isla until he was standing over her in all his manly glory. His gaze dragged from her face to her robe, slightly open now, a tease of red lace revealed. “You came.”

She better come. That much she knew. She’d never felt so close to orgasm without being touched. Looking at Eric, the deep grooves of his muscles, the V dipping into his tight briefs, the large bulge that twitched and thickened ever-so-slightly, a soft breeze might send her over the edge.

He leaned down and helped her to her feet, hauling her close.

She clung to him. “My entrance was supposed to be sexier.”

“You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“I thought my neck was too long and my lips were too full.”

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he said roughly.

Then he kissed her, not giving her a chance to tell him how gorgeous he was, that his thighs weren’t lumpy and that his intense eyes were stunning, not awful. He coaxed her lips open, twirled his tongue with hers, wrapped his arms around her and took two handfuls of her ass, squeezing her through the bathrobe. His thigh met her center, rubbing where she ached for him.