Page 43 of Pregnant After One Forbidden Night

“Is it safe?” he asked.

“What?”

“Working out. For the baby?”

If she had not detected a thread of vulnerability in the question, she might have poked fun at him. “More than. The doctor made it loud and clear.”

He nodded, and she smiled, touched that he’d cared. The child she carried was his of course, he should care, but it was nice to be included within his net of concern.

She turned once more, again on her way out when he called, “Jenna.”

Again, she stopped and looked back at him, “What?”

His eyes had a mischievous look in them that was less sexual than his intense gazes but no less wicked. “Were you planning on working out in a dress?”

Eyes narrowing slightly, she said, “I was.”

“Seems rather restrictive,” he observed.

Lifting an eyebrow, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, aware that she no longer spoke for herself, but femme folk everywhere in the ageless battle of the sexes. “You’d be surprised.”

“By how your impractical fashion choices could facilitate your abduction? No. That’s, in fact, exactly what I’m pointing out.” He delivered his speech looking down his nose with his head tilted to an arrogant degree.

Jenna scoffed. “Anyone who tried would be in for a rude surprise.”

“You deny your attire puts you at a disadvantage then?” he pressed.

She met him head-on, a thrill rising in her blood. “I do.”

“I challenge you to a sparring match then.”

Her mouth dropped open and a look of impish delight lit his eyes—a look she was well versed in, having witnessed it often in the faces of each of her brothers growing up. He thought he could beat her, and he thought he could prove a point, and because of it, she was honor-bound to prove him wrong.

Her skin flushed at the thought, reminding her that, for all the momentary similarities, he was not one of her brothers. He was a man she had trouble keeping an appropriate distance from under the best, and honestly, most restrictive circumstances.

Wrestling was out of the question.

Even if the thought of it, the idea of moving her body the way it loved to move rather than doing a circuit of repetitions on machines, made both her blood and heart sing.

She shook her head and forced a light laugh, “Not this time.”

“Jenna Noelle Moustafa,” he said, in a perfect imitation of every playground bully that had ever existed, raising her hackles in the process. “You’re scared.”

Holding firm, she said, “I am not. I’m mature. And I never told you my middle name.”

He shrugged, falling back slightly into a light defensive stance. “I know everything.”

“Not quite everything,” she said, and then she attacked, faking him out with a feint to the left before sliding right to slip inside her protective barrier. “For example, you don’t know what my favorite color is.”

And then she danced away, out of his reach and around the nearest machine.

Her pursued her unhurriedly, jade eyes never losing her though she continued to maneuver and weave through the equipment, making her way to the area of open mat in front of the room’s requisite floor-to-ceiling windows. Here, at least, she could make out the faint trace of mesh barrier in the glass.

She wouldn’t have to worry about throwing him through.

He met her on the mat and they circled one another, eyes locked, their bodies once again transported to a world of their own. The question was: What was he willing to commit?

He knew her on paper, her stats and biography. He did not know her favorite color. The question was now: Would he want to? He said he did, but so far, she had seen him push his own agenda.

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