Chapter Eleven
Accidental Almost Orgasms with Brannon
“ T hat’s it, you’re doing perfect. Don’t stop. Good girl.”
Sweat trickles down my spine, and I bob my head rapidly in agreement as another heaving breath whooshes from my lungs.
“A little deeper. You can take it.”
My eyes snap open, wide and slightly clouded from the strain. Deeper? Are you fucking kidding me? I glare through watery eyes at the person before me, internally cursing every decision that led me to this moment—primarily, taking my feral best friend's advice to find a way to blow off steam.
I shift my body, trying to find comfort in an impossible situation. But my knees are killing me, my finger bones ache, and my throat is nearly raw.
Can’t do it. God, I might actually need my inhaler.
A tongue clicks in disapproval. “I know what you’re thinking right now. It’s all over your face.”
Lies. You don’t know shit.
“But if you dig deeper within yourself, I promise you’ll find that extra bit of energy to keep going.”
“Don’t want to.” Still, I won't give up. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t see this through?
A happy one, my inner voice coos. Just give up, Georgia. Give up and let’s go find a cinnamon roll. Cinnamon rolls make us happy.
I nod again, gluten-free, sugary goodness filling my thoughts.
“Beautiful. Now, let’s take this a bit further,” the sultry voice purrs. “Find a little movement here. Pedal the feet for five, hands planted flat on your mat for balance. When you’re ready, dive for the earth on an exhale.”
“Dive?” I gasp. “Pedal how ?”
My neck snaps upward, and my eyes narrow on the athletic bombshell filling up my TV screen.
She effortlessly bends and twists her body like the human gumby she is.
Her breaths are even, inhaling on exertion, exhaling through holds, before repeating the process.
All the while, she never gives up on her borderline sexual commentary.
“Perfect. Now that we’re all warmed up, let’s get a bit more comfortable as our partners join us.”
Partners? My brows furrow and I lean back on my thighs, my attention riveted to the screen. The studio lights blanketing the instructor dim a fraction as a tall, shirtless man with lithe muscles appears, his sultry smirk fixated on the woman.
From one blink to the next, she’s ripped off her form-fitting tank and her perky breasts spill free, bouncing against her perfect abs.
My mouth drops open.
The music changes from a soft, relaxing melody to something far more... provocative . It’s a slow, sensual beat, one that makes my stomach flip for entirely different reasons.
What the hell kind of yoga is this?
“As your partner joins you,” the bombshell purrs, “focus on the connection between your bodies.”
Connection ? I choke on a gasp. My hands are clammy, and I rub them over my thighs, feeling the overwhelming urge to run out of the room. I’m glued to the floor, though—frozen as the woman and her now equally naked partner entwine themselves together like some kind of spicy, tantric pretzel.
The guy settles behind her, his hands sliding down her sides as they move into a pose that looks anything but appropriate for a yoga class. My mind scrambles, trying to piece together how I went from a peaceful morning stretch to this .
I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I don't turn off the tutorial. Instead, I lean a little closer , focus a little harder .
Suddenly, working out just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting.
“Allow your partner to guide you deeper,” she murmurs breathily as his hands travel lower, lower, lower, and I swear to all that is holy, my brain short-circuits.
“Deeper where?” I cry, watching raptly as his hand glides between her spread thighs.
As if in answer, he slips his palm beneath the band of her buttery-looking shorts. Her head falls backward onto his shoulder with a deep moan and her face instantly fills with a kind of bliss I can only achieve when I’m asleep— or spending the evening with my vibrator.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, swallowing thickly.
Without my permission, my body scoots a few inches closer to the screen as my eyes adjust to my new reality. The woman whimpers, rolls her hips, and my nipples pebble in response.
Well, that settles it. I’m officially watching porn.
They grind together—him behind her, her ass pressed against his cock, and all I can think is, fuck, that looks hot as hell .
I’m debating grabbing my rabbit, or plucking out my eyeballs, when the guy whispers something in the instructor’s ear that catches on her mic and echoes around my living room.
“You’re so wet, darling. Is this all for me?”
The name tugs on something inside me, except in my mind, it’s not a hippy yoga instructor with thin muscles and Gumby-like limbs, and he doesn’t say darling like some sort of posh, British book boyfriend.
In my head, he’s thick, tattooed, and grumpy.
Instead of short spikes, he’s got a mess of dark brown waves that fall to his shoulders and are perpetually tucked under some sort of hat.
He’s broken in a way that calls to my own fractured pieces, and his voice is a deep, rumble that’s slightly accented, except when he’s adding a thick drawl and murmuring darlin’ in my ear just to piss me off.
His smirk is cocky, his body is insane, and he exudes so much Daddy energy, my ovaries actually ache .
Suddenly, the sound of murmured moans and groans is a blur in the background, overshadowed by the desperate need thrumming through me. My nipples are hard, and my clit’s pulsing in time with my erratic heartbeat.
At some point, I dropped to my ass, back against my coffee table, and spread my thighs, just like the bombshell. But instead of watching them, my head is tipped up and my fingers are sliding under my leggings.
A whimper slips free the second my finger touches my clit.
God, how long has it been since I’ve touched myself? Let myself just fall apart? Attempted to quench the ache that never seems to quite disappear after I’ve come?
How long’s it been since I got laid? Over a year, and it was over well before I was even close.
My eyes flutter closed, and my throat tightens. I try to focus on the sounds coming from the TV, and not the memories of Kade fucking Archer that are looping through my brain on repeat—but it’s impossible.
I swirl my finger around my clit again, ignoring how utterly soaked I am. It’s ridiculous. He’s hardly ever touched me, and it was platonic at best, caveman behavior at worst.
But, hell, I loved the caveman behavior. I’d never admit it out loud, but being manhandled by him turned me on more than any bland sex I’ve ever had, which is depressing and exciting all at once.
Adding a second finger, I glide down, coating myself in my wetness, and slip them inside my pussy, curving them in a desperate need to find that elusive spot.
“Oh, fuck,” I whimper, pinching my nipple through my sports bra.
My hips roll, my thumb presses down on my clit. I’m so close, and I just started. My core is literally dripping.
What am I doing?
I shake my head rapidly, trying to dispel the anxiety, and frantic thoughts competing with made-up images of Kade wearing absolutely nothing but a fucking cowboy hat.
“If you open your pretty mouth one more time, darlin’, I swear I’ll find a way to shut you up.”
Did he mean with his mouth on mine, kissing me roughly, his tongue thrust between my lips, or something else?
Would he shut me up with his cock down my throat, or with my face stuffed into pillows?
My pussy clenches around my fingers, and I tug my nipple harder, twisting it the way I like. Hips rolling, fingers fucking hard and fast, thumb circling, and two yoga instructors moaning, whimpering, and groaning in the background, I’m seconds away from coming faster than ever.
I can feel it, feel it, feel —
“That’s it, Brannon!” the woman cries.
I nod, but it’s not Brannon I’m mentally calling, it’s Kade, and as horrible as it is, the man in my mind is about to drag me over the edge with his mouth glued to my pussy, his fingers buried so deep inside me, I’ll never be able to get rid of the feeling.
“Yes,” I beg, voice breathy. “ Please , please, pl —”
“Spank my vulva, Brannon!”
I freeze, heart pounding, ears fuzzy.
“Activate my chakras! I’m going to transcend into the ninth dimension!”
My eyes snap open, brows furrowed, and I flick my blurry gaze to the TV.
Where the hell are her pants? Holy shit, my screen is filled with the bombshell’s literal bush, and Brannon…
Brannon is growling like a honey badger, and, and—
“Oh my God, they’re actually fucking!” I cry.
Glancing down, I find my own fingers buried deep inside me, my other hand aggressively palming my boob, and suddenly, I feel gross.
More than gross, I feel…
I feel post-nut clarity, and I didn’t even get to come.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, tugging my hands free. My fingers are soaked, and my pussy feels disturbingly empty—as if Kade were actually there—and another wave of shame washes over me.
The sensual beat pulses in the background, and a garbled moan penetrates the air. My core clenches in anticipation like some kind of fucked-up Pavlovian response. I suck in a sharp breath and slap my clean hand against the off button on the TV.
Nothing.
I slam it again and again, but the only thing I see is Brannon pulling his dick out of the bombshell like they’re preparing for a position change.
My eyes go wide and I half-run, half-stumble to the outlet. I drop to my knees, searching for the right cord in a sea of black wires.
“Let your sacred sun-seed spill into my cosmic garden, Bran! I want to blossom with your aura.”
I rip out every plug in sight.
The sudden silence is deafening. My pulse is racing, and my brain is trying to catch up with what I just witnessed.
What I just did.
Holy shit. Was she about to come?
Was I?