Chapter 5 #2
I didn’t even realize what that looked like until she snatches the remote and pauses her video. “Jesus Christ, can you go to bed, please? I can’t do this with you watching me like you’re about to pop a camera or binoculars out of your pocket and indulge in some professional voyeurism.
I stay in hulking statue mode, or whatever it was she accused me of being earlier.
She switches her gaze back to the TV. “Well… if you’re not going to bed, then come join me.” She points over her shoulder to the large chunk of floor space between her and the wall. “Although, this is pretty hard. They’re going to get vertical right away.”
An image of us doing the exact opposite and getting horizontal flashes through my mind.
Clothes off, a tangle of limbs and lips and longing.
Just like earlier today, I physically startle, a shiver rolling up my spine followed by an unexpected rush of heat.
My cock hardens. Thankfully, with some minor adjustment, my jeans will hide the issue.
My brain is starting to get the memo. My body finds Sloane attractive, obviously against my will.
I’m good at shutting my brain off and locking down.
I imagine this as a complicated situation with a set of orders that I have to follow specifically.
I tone my breathing down and focus on counting.
That helps. I duck my face to hide any lingering emotion, just in case.
Until I step into my little designated corner and get behind Sloane. She’s in tight leggings and a loose fitting t-shirt, but she has it rucked around her hips, so I get a good view of her shapely ass. With the leggings cupping it tight. Riding between her cheeks a little.
Fuck.
I think that she’s the kind of person who would laugh and accuse herself of not being hot and call herself old, but it doesn’t matter what age she is. She’s the kind of woman who will always be unflaggingly lovely, on the inside and the outside.
It’s clear after she’s done warming up, that she does a lot of yoga. For starters, I haven’t seen her do a basic pose, and warmups are supposed to be easy. Secondly… her ass. It’s very… firm. Defined. Those leggings ride up with every pose, giving each cheek that much more definition. And her legs…
Jesus fucking Christ.
I go back to counting my breaths while Sloane resumes the video.
There are three instructors on the screen.
A lead woman in the middle wearing tight, sporty leggings and a sports bra, a woman beside her in pretty much the same outfit, and a man on the other side in a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of tight shorts.
The lead does the hard stuff and the other two are modifying the poses.
One is doing very basic, the other woman intermediate, and the lead is doing the hardest stuff.
Sloane is right there in the thick of it, trying everything that the lead instructor does.
She wasn’t joking about getting vertical.
Within five minutes, all three people are up in some version of handstands.
Beside me, Sloane braces herself and kicks off, controlling and holding the pose and slowly straightening her legs. Her upper body shakes and her legs waver.
If she comes crashing down, she’s going to hit the coffee table. The glass coffee table.
I’m not doing much over here besides staring at my phone screen, watching all the security feeds, standing in a slight stretch.
Okay, I’ve been glancing between my phone screen and Sloane, trying not to stare at her solely.
I change strategies and set my phone down.
I get ready to catch her or brace her if she needs it.
Seeing her tremble and shake, wobble and waver, immediately sets off a protective alarm bell in my head.
“Why don’t you ever say anything?” Sloane grinds out. I’m shocked she can talk at all. She was measuring her breaths before and concentrating so intently. “Is it an actual condition? PTSD?”
I study her, wondering how I’m supposed to gather up enough words to answer something that’s gone on my whole life.
“You’re going to hurt yourself like that.
” My voice is like gravel. It’s awful, but the words burst out of me.
Sloane wavers and gasps. My hands shoot out, but I stop short of touching her.
She wouldn’t forgive me if I messed up her pose before she lost it.
My throat burns, but I force more words.
“I could show you some exercises that are more effective, but less risky.”
I see now why Sloane rolled and tucked her t-shirt. It doesn’t ride up and expose anything and she doesn’t have to keep tugging it down. It pretty much stays right in place on her hips. A sliver of creamy skin is exposed above her leggings, but I rip my eyes away.
“I’ll pass, thanks.” She blinks at me from upside down. “Why are you looking at me like that? Just because you have a quintillion black belts doesn’t mean that you’re better at this than I am.” I blink at her. “Oh. You think you are. By all means, you give it a go. I—argh!”
She tumbles over, falling sideways before she can catch herself and come safely out of the pose. She’s heading straight for the sharp edges of that metal and glass coffee table that I wish she would have moved to the other side of the room.
She falls fast, but I’m faster.
I get my arms around her and catch her, bring her safely down to her side. My chest presses against her chest. My shoulder to her shoulder. Our hipbones brush.
She gasps and wrenches away, wriggling out from under my arms. She kneels on her mat and quickly composes her face, smoothing it into the pleasant mask that she probably reserves for asshole customers, but she can’t hide the flush staining her cheeks.
I don’t know if she’s humiliated, pissed off, or something I shouldn’t be thinking about because ridiculously turned on isn’t an option.
“I had it,” she huffs, going with anger because that’s easiest. “Falling is part of learning. I didn’t need your help.”
“Okay.”
“You’re so obnoxious.” Her words are heated, but it sounds forced.
“Okay.”
“Don’t use your reverse psychology SEAL training whatever on me.” She waves her hands around all in my face like she’s casting a spell, but I guess she’s just animated. My face wants to crack open and smile. I want to do something I haven’t done in a long time. Laugh. “And don’t you dare say okay.”
Silence fills the room.
She seems satisfied with it. She’s still breathing roughly.
So am I. What the fuck? I immediately start on measured breaths, counting them out for myself.
“I don’t want you to show me exercises. I was trying to clear my head. The happy little let’s stretch ourselves out and tone ourselves up yoga wasn’t going to cut it for me tonight.”
That’s debatable, but of course I don’t say that.
Sloane studies me, her eyes burning a hole through my skull. My stomach clenches, but not in a bad way. Despite the fact that I’m kneeling here, totally still, my heartrate kicks up again.
“I want something to think about. The physical stuff is obviously easy for you, Mr. Ass Kicker Extraordinaire. How about some poetry?”
“Why do you hate me?” I groan. She must, if she’s asking me to entertain her with verse. That involves speaking. And poetry. I might be a lot of things, but a damn artist of any kind isn’t one of them.
She takes that literally. “I don’t. I just don’t want Liam involved with you or anyone else from the club.
I appreciate what you’re all doing, and I know that this was something Liam did wrong and that you don’t have to do any of it.
” She snatches the remote and switches the TV off.
“I’m struggling between gratitude, guilt, and worry that something even more horrendous will happen if Liam gets any deeper with the club.
You can’t promise me it won’t, so don’t even try.
I’m not really at a point where I’m ready for platitudes yet. ”
“Okay.”