Your Forever Love (The Bennett Family 3)

“So, what are you doing here?”

“I’ve been tricked by my sister. But I’ll take your advice and try to relieve stress. This week will be rough.”

“How so?”

“I’m trying to finalize some new designs that have been giving me headaches,” I explain.

“Good luck.”

“See you around,” I tell him, and continue with my routine. Over the next half hour, I discover one of the few advantages of the gym—spying on Eric.

He’s alone because my brothers do their entire workout on the floor above us. The man is a work of art, and he dedicatedly works out every muscle group. Seeing his skin damp with sweat while he occasionally grunts out with efforts is torture. I’m almost salivating as I watch him. Once in a while, he looks at me as if he can feel my stare, and a white-hot current runs through me every time.

After I finish my routine, I stop by the health bar behind the reception and drink a fresh orange juice. This is my favorite place in the entire gym, mainly because I’m allowed to sit and do nothing, but also because it’s empty most of the time.

Since I’m the only one here right now, I kick off my sneakers and prop my feet on the armchair in front of me. My heart slams against my ribcage with nauseating speed, and not because of my run on the treadmill. Knowing Eric is here does things to me. It makes me nervous, and at the same time, it gives me an odd reassurance. I love being around him, and I haven’t even remotely liked being around a man in a long time. In fact, ever since I filed for divorce, whenever a man not related to me entered a room I made a point to avoid any interactions beyond the necessary ones. My danger radar was up at all times, and all men failed it. But when Eric enters the room, I instantly look forward to any interaction with him. It might be because until now, everything he’s said prompted one of three reactions in me: laugh, swoon, or melt. Sometimes all three.

“You’re cheating,” Eric says, startling me. He stands before me, holding a glass of orange juice himself. I rise to my feet, almost flattening myself against the wall behind me in an effort to put some distance between us. All I manage is to trap myself between the hard wall and Eric. His shirt sticks to him, and it’s a damn fine sight.

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying hard not to look below his jawline.

“You’re breaking the rules,” he replies. “We said no hot looks. You gave me plenty.”

“We broke some other rules too on Friday and Saturday. It’s your fault anyway. You’re wearing clothes that show off your best parts, and you were making manly sounds.”

He laughs, placing his glass of orange juice on a nearby table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I lower my voice. “You know… grunting and stuff.” Without thinking, I add, “It sounds sexy.” How do I always talk myself into a hole when I’m around this man? Not only is my danger radar not working, but my hormones are wreaking havoc on my thoughts.

“You have a dirty mind, Pippa Bennett.”

“Only when I’m around you,” I add. “I promise not to do it again.”

“Don’t.” He latches his eyes on mine, and the intensity is so powerful it weakens my knees.

“What?”

“Don’t promise. You won’t be able to keep that promise, just like I’m not.” His fingers find their way under my chin, and he tilts my head up.

Without breaking eye contact, his thumb inches up my skin, reaching my lower lip. My chest heaves up and down. He drags his finger from one corner of my mouth to the other with exquisite slowness, setting my lower body on fire.

“I’m a man, Pippa Bennett. I thought I could resist you, but I was wrong. I want to taste you. I want to kiss you until you tremble beneath me.”

I’m shaking already. “Bad idea,” I mouth, as I did on Saturday, but it has no effect on him this time. What makes it especially bad is that I want this so much it hurts.

“I know. Very bad.” His voice is a whisper. “Just one kiss.”

Dropping his hand to my waist, he tilts his head forward until I can feel his hot breath on me, and it undoes me. Our mouths meet in a clash, his lips covering mine with desperation. His tongue searches, probes, tastes, turning me into a bundle of need. Eric is fierce, and I love it. His kiss spurs something deep inside me—a desire for more. Every inch of my body screams for him. I become acutely awa

re of his hard chest pressed against mine, his fingers digging into my waist.

When we pull apart, gasping for air, his eyes hold the same kind of heat his kiss did. He rests his forehead against mine, cupping my cheek with one hand. I want to memorize everything about this moment, the warmth of his body, the tenderness of his touch.

“Say something,” he whispers.

“I don’t know what to say, except that I want more.”

He pulls back a notch.