Page 200 of The Rules
Katherine stood there watching him, lip caught between her teeth, her thighs pressed together just a little too tightly. Her eyes had that look—hungry, dark, locked on him like he was something she hadn't decided whether to touch or devour.
Heat shot through him, low and immediate. It curled in his gut, settled heavy and electric between his hips. His arms suddenly felt the strain, his breath hitching just slightly as he held his body off the ground.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t hide.
"You know..." she said, her voice laced with dangerous amusement, "Ishould probably ask for permission."
Ben froze mid-rep, every muscle in his body suddenly taut with anticipation. He straightened slowly, deliberately, reaching for the towel on the bench without taking his eyes off her.
"Permission for what?" he asked, voice low and measured despite the sudden dryness in his throat.
Kath hesitated, the pause stretching between them like a thread pulled too tight. Then she looked up at him through her lashes, offering a casual shrug that was anything but.
"To take care of myself," she replied, the words hanging in the air between them.
Ben stilled. Completely. The silence that followed was not casual.
His pulse punched the inside of his throat.
He knew exactly what she meant.
And now?
So did she.
"You're joking," he said, voice low, unreadable.
"Obviously," Kath half-laughed, nervous now.
Ben tilted his head. Studied her. The way her fingers curled a little too tightly around her mug. The slight flush creeping up her neck. The way her eyes couldn't quite hold his.
She thought she was in control. She wasn't.
"Fine. You have permission," Ben said, calm and deliberate.
Her breath stuttered. Just a little.
"Wait. What?" Kath asked.
"Do it. Right here," Ben said, dead serious.
Kath blinked. Hard. Color flushed across her chest, spreading upward in a wave that fascinated him. He watched it bloom beneath her skin, marking her discomfort, her surprise—and something else entirely.
"I wasn't serious," she said.
His eyes dropped—slow, deliberate—to her legs. Then rose back up, locking on her mouth.
He moved to the weights, posture fluid but focused. Each lift cut the air with purpose, steel rising and falling in a cadence too smooth to be casual. Muscles flexed and stretched under the soft sheen of sweat that traced along the ridges of his back.
His breath stayed steady, precise—his rhythm unwavering. But the control was surface-level at best.
Because he could feel her.
Not just in the room—on him. Like pressure, like static, like a slow drag of heat over nerves that refused to quiet.
He didn’t need to look. He knew exactly where she was—curled on the couch like temptation wrapped in cotton, her bare legs tucked beneath her, her shirt riding high on her thighs.
