Yoga Outfits are Too Sexy
Cohen
Breathe? Stretch? Avoid looking at your “coach’s” ass?
Yeah, I think I’m going to fail spectacularly on that last point.
The room is bathed in soft morning light. It smells of wood, lavender, and punishment.
Sloane is there, kneeling on the mat, and for a moment I completely forget how to breathe.
Plum-colored leggings.
A cropped top, bare shoulders, clear skin speckled with moles. Tits squeezed and a killer ass.
Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail that leaves her neck exposed—thin, elegant, begging to be bitten.
And… that ponytail… I just want to wrap it around my hand and pull her down towards my junk.
She’s scrolling through a playlist, completely immersed in her own world.
She looks calm. Composed.
Me? No.
Then she looks up and sees me.
“Becker,” she says, flatly. “Punctual. A miracle.”
“Didn’t want you to miss me.” I wiggle my eyebrows and play the jerk. After all, that’s what I always do best.
“Ah, of course. I wake up every night wondering how you are.”
Well, I wake up wondering quite a lot of other things. Wanting to do quite a lot of other things. Like losing myself inside her again and again.
Yeah, I feel like an idiot obsessed with his one-night stand.
And all of this just adds to the already very long list of things I shouldn’t want to do or think about the coach’s daughter.
But… hey, I’ve never been with a woman capable of reducing me to this. I’ve never been with a woman so confident, so seductive.
I smile at her, but I just want to die. “Sweet. Are you always so romantic first thing in the morning?”
She snorts and sits up straight, adopting that perfect, magazine-ad posture.
I lie down on the mat next to her, spreading my sarcasm over every inch of space.
I don’t know if a man can be sexy doing yoga, but… that man is definitely not me right now.
Maybe I should have done something about it instead of showing up here in sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. But how could I compete with Sloane Heart herself?
She is the exact definition of sexy in the dictionary.
Does she regret that night? Was she too drunk?
Fuck, I don't want to think about something like that.
Inhale, exhale, and I try to go back to being the asshole Cohen I find easy to be.
“Let’s start with something simple,” she says, and bends forward, touching her toes. Those damned bare feet, painted pink, flexing on the mat as she adjusts? I don't think I've ever been attracted to so many details in a woman.
The fabric of the leggings follows every curve, and I don’t know whether to thank or hate karma for this moment.
“Eyes on the mat, Becker.”
“I am looking at it.”
“Not mine.”
I smile, not denying anything. “Not specifying is a rookie mistake.”
She inhales sharply, visibly close to spiritual homicide.
“Yoga is meant to calm the mind and body.”
“I’m perfectly calm.” I try to be. An erection under these pants can’t be hidden, and yes, thanks, I’d like to avoid looking like a tent.
“Sure. I can tell.”
I instinctively look down to check, but… no, she didn’t mean that.
She moves behind me to correct my position.
Her fingers brush my shoulders, then my back.
It’s a light, professional touch.
But it doesn't take much for me to feel ignited.
“Relax your shoulders,” she murmurs.
Fuck her voice…
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
I turn slightly, just enough to catch her gaze. I find myself dangerously close to her breasts.
“Because you’re too close.”
She freezes for half a second. Maybe she didn't expect such bluntness.
But you know what, Sloane? I’m not here to pretend I’m not turned on.
I’m not here to pretend I don’t desperately want more.
I’m not here to pretend that since that night, you haven’t become my erotic fantasy.
Instead, she goes back to pretending she doesn’t care. Or maybe she really doesn't.
“You need to learn control, Becker.”
“I’ve always preferred losing it.”
She shakes her head, but her cheeks betray a slight blush.
She tries to look away, fails.
“Next position,” she says in a firmer voice.
She kneels, lifts her arms, then bends backward in a perfect arch.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, but my brain has just decided that following instructions is no longer an option.
“Are you moving?” Now she sounds more irritated.
“I’m enjoying the view.”
“You’re earning a kick.”
“A promising start to a love story.”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a love story; it’s a yoga lesson.”
“Have you never heard of multitasking?”
She turns towards me, hands on her hips.
The light filters through the window and illuminates her skin.
She seems designed to make you lose concentration.
“What is the problem, Becker?” Hands on her hips, eyebrow raised, the look of a woman contemplating murder.
Honestly? The problem is you, Sloane Heart, and that damned ass in plum-colored leggings.
“I just have an instructor with sadistic tendencies.” The voice slides out lightly, like a provocation that doesn’t demand a reply.
“I suggest you stop making my life impossible, or you’ll truly test just how sadistic my tendencies can become.” Her answer arrives slow and particularly deliberate.
I just want to grab the lower lip that's trembling a little from anger, nibble on it and suck it…
Instead, I answer in a light tone. “I love it when you talk to me like that.”
She crosses her arms, her jaw tightens. She looks at me as if she’s taking inventory of all the qualities she hates about me. Then she decides to ignore me and signals me to proceed with the lesson.
I mimic her and lie down on the mat, hands behind my head. “You should relax, Angel. Yoga is supposed to calm the soul.”
A shadow passes over her eyes, like: “I’m going to kill you with a smile today.” But she decides to ignore me again.
“Inhale,” she says. “And… exhale.”
Exactly seven different ways I could ruin her composure come to mind, and none of them are legal in a fitness center.
“Should I be doing that too?”
“If you want to stay alive, yes.”
I smile. “I like it when you worry about me.”
“Cohen.” Her voice growls with irritation.
“Sloane.” I, on the other hand, am very Zen. I’m starting to like this side of yoga.
Our voices clash, warm, too close.
I hear her hold her breath, and I know it’s not for concentration.
She stops.
She moves away slightly.
Then, against all logic, she moves closer than before and gets back to work.
“Alright,” she finally says, coughing to mask a smile, or a scream… I’m not entirely sure. “Let’s try a couple of balancing poses. You stand behind me, imitate my movements. But don’t touch me.”
“You’re asking the impossible.”
“Becker.”
I sigh and give up a little. Yes, sooner or later even I get tired of being a complete idiot. “I promise to try.”
“No, just promise.”
“I usually only promise when I’m totally sure.”
She spins around abruptly, our faces just inches apart.
Her cheeks are pink, her lips slightly parted.
She’s looking at me in a strange way; I can't decipher it.
“One more inch,” I whisper, “and it would technically be an accidental touch.”
“Accidental like your insolence?”
“Exactly like that.”
She turns away, determined to ignore me.
I follow her with my eyes.
The fluid movements, the curve of her back, the way her hair sways slightly.
It’s all so… perfect. And so forbidden.
“Becker, if you keep staring at me, I will make you do the crow pose until you pass out.”
“I like birds.”
Her laugh surrenders, escapes.
It’s sweet, genuine, almost intimate. It sounds so… beautiful, musical.
“I can’t believe you actually said that,” she finally says, with a tired but softer sigh.
She looks at me, her eyes betraying a thousand things she will never say.
“Listen,” she adds, pushing a rebellious lock of hair from her forehead, “yoga is meant to free the mind, not make it race towards… inappropriate thoughts.”
“I am freeing it. From all the clothes you’re wearing, for example.”
Okay, maybe I didn’t mean to say that out loud… or maybe I did, her reaction is too entertaining.
Her mouth drops open, and she remains speechless for about three seconds. Then her voice rises almost shrilly. “Becker!”
“What? I’m just participating in the experience.” I burst out laughing; I can't hold it back.
And I have to admit that it's not just provoking her that I find fun right now.
I mean… I know she’s completely irritated with me and that she can’t wait, surely, to be rid of this assignment, but she seems like a strong person.
She’s stubborn, obsessively precise, works herself to exhaustion, but she’s also funny.
I don’t remember having this much fun lately.
“You have your own concept of mindfulness.”
“Oh yeah. Much more entertaining than yours.” I mumble, unable to hold back my lips from curving into a smile, again.
A smile escapes her too, one she tries to repress by moving her mouth sideways.
And that is damn sexy.
It almost looks like we’re flirting… but I know that in truth, only I am doing it.
“You are unbearable,” she murmurs.
Exactly.
“A lot of women say that.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“Depends on how you say it. You do it with that voice…” I lean slightly forward. “That voice that sounds like an invitation.”
She inhales, determined to ignore me. Or to hit me, she hasn’t decided yet. I think the line is thin at this point.
“Last position,” she says, and shows me how to raise my arms and lean to one side.
I imitate her—terribly—and end up wobbling.
“Don’t laugh at me, Angel.” I know she wants to, even though she tries hard to remain serious.
“I’m not. Focus, we have a lot of work to do, remember?”
I roll my eyes and pretend to be bored again. “Uh-huh.”
Our hands brush as she tries to correct my balance.
It’s a touch of nothing, but the blood explodes in my veins.
Her fingers tremble slightly, and for a second, I swear, I don’t know which of us is breathing faster.
“Stop,” she whispers, her voice no longer as steady as before.
“I’m not moving.”
“I know. It was a warning.”
Her gaze drops for a second to my lips.
Mine to hers.
And for a moment, I know I could lean forward, touch her, kiss her, give in to this torture.
We stay like that. Too close. Too hot.
She pulls away by a breath, just long enough to recover the professionalism that’s slipping through her fingers.
She steps back first, grabs a water bottle, and grips it like it’s the only barrier left.
“Becker, time is up. I’ll see you at two.”
She completely changes her tone, becoming professional, serious, irritated.
“At two?” It takes me a moment too long to remember the schedule.
“Introductory Compatibility Session. You’ll need it.” Then she sighs and rolls her eyes. “I sent you the schedule; just learn it instead of sending me idiotic texts.”
Then she opens the water bottle, takes a long sip, and points the rolled-up mat at my chest.
She turns to leave, and as she walks away, I can’t help but call her back again.
“Hey, Heart?”
“What is it now, Becker?”
“Yoga doesn’t work.”
“Why?”
“I feel more tense than before.”
Then she exits, leaving behind only a good scent and temptation.
And I stay there, on the mat, with a stupid smile and an obvious problem to solve before the next session.