Page 66 of The Knockout Rule

She shoved his shoulder playfully, a teasing glint in her eye. Then she pinched his side. On most people, the cute move wouldn’t have much of an effect. But Eric jumped. He was unbearably ticklish, a fact his niece and nephew lived to exploit.

Isla’s eyes grew wide, shining with glee. “This is my lucky day.” She dug in, going for his armpits, wiggling her fingers, making him laugh, until his control snapped.

“Not so lucky.” He manhandled her, fended off her attack and caught her wrists, pinning her to the couch. He realized the predicament too late: how close they were, his thigh pressing between her legs, his growing hard-on straining against her hip. She made a small, needy sound that fucking undid him, and he rotated his hips, couldn’t control the answering move. Both their smiles slipped, their chests rising faster as heat shot to his groin.

“So you’re ticklish?” she said, her soft voice turning throaty.

Being ticklish was the furthest thing from his mind right then. He needed to pull it together. Get his body under control. He forced his hips to still, but he couldn’t hide how hard he was, flush against her. “If you tickle me again, you’ll lose every time.”

Or win. If she let him, he’d kiss his way down her body now, spread her open, taste her, lick her until she dissolved in pleasure. But tonight wasn’t about giving into the sparking attraction between them. Only this morning Isla had decided to overlook his boxing and give him a chance. She needed time to adjust, figure out how to deal with her anxiety before things moved too quickly between them.

He released her and pushed up, adjusting himself as he stood. “You’re distracted.” And beautiful and sexy, and damn she smelled so good. “We should take a break.” Or a cold shower…together—wet, soapy, naked. Another sharp pulse flooded his cock. He gritted his teeth, couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this desperate for a woman. Even as a teen he’d had more control.

Music drifted through the wall, some old jazz from his neighbor’s room. Music he loved.

Rubbing against Isla on the couch was a monumentally bad idea, but he couldn’t seem to move far from her. Or quit fantasizing about her. And an urge struck. Unable to control the impulse, he turned to her and held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

“Dance?” Her attention drifted to the wall, where the music was loudest. When she looked back at Eric, her cheeks were pink. “I took hip-hop as a kid, not fancy ballroom.”

“My mother taught me how to dance. I’ll lead you.” Hold her the way he should, tenderly, not rutting against her hip like an animal. Prove she’d made the right choice by letting him in.

“Okay,” she said quietly. Almost bashful.

He helped her up from the couch, led them to the carpeted space by the large windows. Vegas lights shone below; jazz drifted around them. He held her close, one hand pressed to her lower back, the other linked with hers. Occasionally her steps faltered, but he adjusted his rhythm, made sure she caught up and swayed with him.

“We should be dressed fancy for this,” she said. “In a tuxedo and ball gown.”

He didn’t love wearing suits. For Isla, he’d happily button up. “You’d have to choose mine for me. I don’t do style well. Not like Preston.”

“Considering I crimped my hair when I was young and wore a pink velour track suit on the regular, I probably shouldn’t be your style consultant.”

He laughed. “I need photographic evidence.”

“Only if you share your worst style crimes, assuming you served time for bad taste.” Her hand drifted over his upper back, tracing random patterns.

His body was back to defying him, but he didn’t fight the burn this time. There was something special about waiting—the anticipation, the flare of desire sparking in his gut. Excitement in the delayed gratification. “I was charged and sentenced by Rosa. I wore this chunky fake gold chain every day, thought it was the height of cool. According to her it was tacky as hell. And I had a mullet.”

She snorted, rested her head against his chest. “Oh, yeah. We’re definitely swapping embarrassing photos. The mullet must be seen.”

“What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on?” He was eager for more from Isla. The bits and pieces of her history. Her worsts. Her bests. Every detail in between.

“A dude thought taking me to his ex’s wedding to make her jealous would be smart.”

“No.”

“I ditched him when he went for the ass grab on the dance floor.”

Eric’s fingers twitched, wanting to do exactly that. Reach lower, fill his palms with Isla. He also loved this, dancing together, laughing, talking. Complete ease, like their afternoon shopping in the promenade, but better. “I took a woman to dinner who insisted on proving she could stick her toe in her mouth while at the table.”

Isla tipped her head up, looking so fucking amused. “I assume there was no second date.”

“Hell no.” He spun Isla faster, a whirl that had her smile spreading wider. His sternum warmed, then the music died, but Eric didn’t stop. He held her closer, hummed a Russian song, sang the words softly as he continued to dance.

Isla melted against him. “I’m sorry.”

He had no clue why she’d be sorry. He couldn’t be happier, holding her like this. “Are you apologizing for stepping on my feet?”

“Oh, you mean like this?” She stepped on both his feet, forcing him to carry her as they danced. He spun them faster. She laughed, then adjusted herself back onto the floor. “I’m sorry I’m making us wait. That I’m not ready for more yet.”