Page 66 of Reputation (Tempt)
I scoffed, though my body said otherwise. “Not unless you are.”
She smirked, the devil dancing in her eyes. A drop of sweat traveled a path between her breasts. Disappearing beneath her sports bra.
Fuck me, the woman was hot. Even if she was intent on killing me. I’d thought my trainer pushed me hard, but the infamous Dirk Steele had nothing on Emerson.
“Nope!” She hopped up from the bench with renewed vigor, and I tried not to groan at her enthusiasm.
How the hell was she doing all this?
“Come on.” She held out a hand, and it drew my eye up her long legs, past her core. That tight stomach. Her pert breasts. Then her face, which was flushed with color and glowing from exertion.
I tried not to groan. If this was taking it “light,” what the fuck did intense look like for Emerson?
I placed my hand in hers, electricity dancing along my skin. She pulled me up to a standing position. We were so close, our chests practically brushed. Her soft breasts against my hard chest. Her…
She took a step back, breaking the spell. “All right. You ready to run hills?”
I glanced around. “Hills?”
Emerson hooked her thumb toward the treadmills, and I groaned. “More?”
“You don’t have to,” she said, but I got the feeling she was testing me. Trying to see what I was made of.
I survived the rest of the workout—though I didn’t know how. But then she bent forward and started stretching and…dear god. All the blood fled south. I envisioned the profit and loss statements I’d been working on the other day for the studio. Tried to focus on something, anything but the sight of Emerson’s perfect ass as she dove forward in the most graceful—and flexible—of stretches.
“You should stretch,” she said.
I opened my mouth, but it was as dry as the Sahara Desert. And how the hell was I supposed to hide the semi in my gym shorts? The flimsy fabric did nothing to disguise my growing desire, even though she had to have felt it earlier during our kiss.
Fuck. Fucking. Fuck.
I seemed to lose all control when it came to this woman.
“Nate?” she asked when I didn’t move.
I cleared my throat and slid to the floor, my muscles screaming from the grueling pace she’d set. I moved into child’s pose, my cock aching with every brush against the silky material of my shorts.
“Do you always work out at that intensity?” I asked as she joined me on the floor.
She laughed, the sound bright and cheerful. Like wind chimes dancing in the breeze. “Did you think that was intense?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Kind of made me wonder what I’ve been paying Dirk Steele so much money for. His workouts aren’t nearly as thorough.”
She preened. “Well, thank you. My coach designed it, so I can’t take full credit.”
“Yeah, but you executed it. And you got me to work harder and sweat more than I have…well, any other time in my life.”
Probably because she was punishing me—for roping her into being my fake fiancée. For holding her phone hostage temporarily, even if I’d done it for her own good. For agreeing to family dinner with her parents without consulting her first. But she didn’t get it—I’d done those thingsforher.
To shield her from the publicity storm I’d started by telling the world we were engaged. To try to limit her stress when I knew it was already too high. I had decades of experience with living in the public eye; Emerson didn’t realize what was coming.
“I love working out. It’s my happy place.”
I turned and gawked at her. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously. I love challenging myself. I love pushing past what I think I can do. I love the rush of endorphins. And the high of a job well done. I love seeing my progress.”
I nodded.