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“Two!” Gareth bellowed, and I stopped thinking.
I bucked my hips, hooked my heel behind her knee and rolled us both, and for one beautiful second Kat Marlowe’s eyes went wide. Then it was her back on the foam and me on top, my knees either side of her ribs, her wrists in my fists.
“Three! Dani wins!”
The department whooped. Somebody from Finance threw a towel. I barely heard it, because Kat was looking up at me, flushed to the collarbones, ponytail wrecked, and she wasn’t angry. She was grinning, slow and wicked, and she flexed her wrists against my grip just enough for me to feel how strong she was and how much she was letting me hold her.
I should have let go. Instead I felt her ribs rising and falling between my thighs, her stomach hard and slick under my hands, and a heat low in me that had nothing to do with the radiators.
“Get off me, Dani,” she said softly. Then, lower, so only I could hear: “Or don’t.”
I let her up. She stood, tall and sweaty, and leaned in as if to congratulate me.
“Rematch,” she murmured against my ear. “No Gareth. No audience. Hotel gym at ten, if you’ve got the nerve.” Then, loudly, for the room: “Well played, Dani!”
I had a choice. Her turf, a locked-down gym at night. Or somewhere hot and neutral. The sauna downstairs was open until midnight.