Chapter 7 Star
CHAPTER SEVEN
STAR
It’s six-forty-five p.m., and the studio is empty except for me and my mounting anxiety. Calm the hell down, Star, I tell myself, but it doesn’t help. My heart is doing somersaults in my chest, and my palms are so sweaty I almost drop my water bottle.
Why did I think this was a good idea? Me alone with Tanner Carrington is definitely a bad idea. A very, very, very bad idea.
I check my phone, even though it’s only been two minutes since the last time. Still nothing. I put it face-down, then flip it over again, then groan at myself. Get it together, Wilde.
The bell over the door chimes with a soft, dignified “ding,” and I nearly break my neck whipping around.
Tanner Carrington is standing in the doorway wearing a gray T-shirt and black gym shorts, both perfectly fitted to his perfectly sculpted body.
His hair is a little rumpled, like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
I get a full-body memory of those hands from the last class, how warm and rough they were, and my knees go straight to gelatin.
“Hey,” he says, and the word is soft and deep and does terrible things to the inside of my skull.
“Hi,” I manage, before my brain starts projectile vomiting anxiety into the void. “You’re, uh, early.”
He glances at his watch, sheepish. “I didn’t want to be late and get docked participation points.” Then he grins, slow and sly, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “I can wait outside, if you need more time to, uh, get ready.”
I roll my eyes and tuck a rogue strand of hair behind my ear, which does nothing to hide how my cheeks are on fire. “I’m ready for you.” That’s an understatement. I’ve been counting the minutes until this private session since the last time I saw him.
He laughs, then looks around. “This place looks different at night.”
“Better or worse?” I ask, because I am apparently incapable of having a normal conversation when he’s in the room.
He shrugs, taking his time scanning the space like he’s committing it to memory. “Warmer. Feels more like… I dunno. A home, I guess?”
I swallow hard and gesture toward the mat I set up near the window. “You can take your shoes off and put them in a cubby. We’ll start with a basic flow, nothing fancy.”
He toes off his sneakers and steps onto the mat, and I can’t resist the urge to watch him. My brain, true to form, serves up a movie reel of him pinning me to the wall with those big, solid hands and—
Nope. Not going there.
He is going to be the death of me.
I clear my throat and try to sound professional. “The only real difference between a yoga class and a private session is I’ll be hands-on with corrections, if that’s okay with you. I promise not to pop your back like a balloon unless you request it.”
He gives a low chuckle, the kind that seems to vibrate from the ground up. “You can do whatever you want, Star. I’m all yours.”
The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. I’m glad the lights are low because my ears are definitely as red as a stop sign.
“Alright, cowboy,” I say, trying to rescue the moment. “Let’s get started.”
He mirrors me, and the room goes still. His eyes are on my face, unwavering.
I walk around him, checking his posture. “Press through your heels. Shoulders down and back.”
I step closer, close enough to touch, and do. Just a light press between his shoulder blades, guiding him to open his chest and drop the tension. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the barely-there tremor of his muscles as he resists the urge to react. Or maybe that’s me.
I pull my hand away, quick. “Perfect,” I say, voice all wrong and breathy.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me with that impossible focus, like I’m the only thing in the world.
We move together, arms reaching up, then folding to the floor. He’s surprisingly graceful for a giant. He picks up the poses insanely fast for a beginner. When I slide into plank and glance over, he’s already there, strong and steady, holding the pose without a flinch.
I adjust his stance, hands briefly skimming his forearm. “Nice alignment,” I say, as if I’m not counting every single point of contact between us.
He holds the plank longer than most pros, then sinks into downward dog when I cue it. I give his lower back the gentlest nudge, and the sensation is electric, like we’re both standing in a thunderstorm waiting to get struck by lightning.
We cycle through a few rounds, and every time I correct him—shoulders, hips, the line of his neck—he follows instantly, like he’s tuned into my wavelength.
The room is quiet except for our breathing and the faint buzz of traffic outside. The music playlist finally settles on a slow, haunting acoustic track, and I want to thank the universe for throwing me a bone.
After the warm-up, I have him sink into child’s pose and hover nearby, trying to give myself a minute to get it together.
We move into the next set of poses. I have him stand, then step back into a lunge. He’s so tall I have to tip my head up to see his face, and when I step in to correct his stance, my chest nearly brushes his arm.
He looks down at me, all earnest, and asks, “Is this good?”
I nod, unable to speak for a second, because all my blood has abandoned my brain in favor of making me feel every single nerve ending in my body.
His eyes flick down to my lips, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me right there, in the middle of the studio. My whole body tightens with anticipation, and then he looks away, clearing his throat like he’s the one who just crossed the line.
The next half-hour is more of the same. Flow, adjust, pretend I’m not on the edge of a minor nervous breakdown every time his skin touches mine. My mind is a mess of lust and panic and a little bit of joy, because holy shit, this man makes me feel alive.
When we finally wind down, I cue him to sit cross-legged on the mat, hands on his knees. “Close your eyes,” I say, voice softer than usual. “Let yourself relax.”
He actually does it, which is somehow the hottest thing I’ve seen all year.
I sit next to him, close enough that our knees almost touch. My own hands are fisted in my lap.
The room is quiet, the music low. The scent of sage hangs in the air, grounding and earthy.
After a minute, he opens his eyes and turns to me. “Thank you, Star,” he says, voice low and sincere.
“For what?” My voice cracks, because of course it does.
“For not making me feel like a moron.”
I laugh, relieved and exhausted. “You’re the best former yoga virgin I’ve had all year.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He grins at me, all wicked and hot, and my skin flushes from head to toe.
“Actually,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and velvet, “think you can pencil me in for the same time next week? Or every week, really. I want you. For private sessions.”
My brain goes blank at the way he says, “I want you.” My breath catches. I nod, because I literally can’t speak.
He leans closer, smelling like leather and sage, and for a second, I think he might just kiss me. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m worried he can hear it.
“Wednesday nights,” I manage, somehow keeping my voice steady. “Yours.”
His eyes darken as he stares down at me. “Perfect,” he purrs. “See you next week, Star.”
And just like that, I have a standing Wednesday night date—with the hottest, cockiest, sweetest cowboy I’ve ever let into my orbit. If I actually believed in fate, I’d say it was a cosmic conspiracy. But right now, it just feels like I’m about to spontaneously combust from how badly I want him.
I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My brain is a one-woman Tanner Carrington highlight reel. Every Wednesday night, he walks through my door looking like the cover of Texas Rancher Magazine, and my self-control crumbles into dust.
He’s always early. Always grinning. Always has a look in his eyes like he wants to eat me alive. I spend hours obsessing over him. Nothing else matters.
Every session, he lets me put my hands all over him, dialing my desire for him up to high. He listens. He follows. He flirts like it’s his job. Sometimes I catch him staring, hungry and shameless, like he wants to devour me right there on the mat.
I’m falling. Hard. No warning. No parachute. And honestly? I think I love it.
We’re coming to the end of another session when he looks at me, and the silence blooms into something warm and sweet. My heart starts doing somersaults as the temperature in the room spikes.
His breath stutters, just a fraction, and I catch the way his eyes darken. There’s a line between us now, bright and trembling, and I know if I cross it, there’s no going back.
I should move away, say something, crack a joke. But I don’t. I just hold my breath, waiting, feeling the heat build.
His head turns slowly. We’re so close I can see every fleck of gold in his hazel eyes.
“Star,” he says, and it’s a plea, a warning, and a promise all at once.
I open my mouth, but I have no idea what I’m about to say, because he leans forward and kisses me.
Gently at first. Then his hand finds the back of my neck and pulls me in, and it’s suddenly anything but gentle.
The world goes silent. My mind blanks out, and all I know is him—his mouth, his hands, the taste of him, the impossible softness of his lips against mine. I kiss him back, hungry, desperate, like I’ve been waiting for this forever.
His grip tightens, and my whole body lights up. I forget where we are, everything else. There’s only this, only him.
His mouth moves over mine, hungry and greedy like he’s waited a thousand years for this.
He tastes like heat and darkness and something so addictive I never want to come up for air.
His hands cradle my jaw, big and careful, but his lips are the total opposite of gentle.
He kisses me like he’s starving, and the world around us ignites.
My fingers fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, until there’s not a millimeter of space left.
He groans into my mouth, deep and wrecked, and the sound goes straight through me. His thumb brushes the pulse at my throat, and I swear I’m about to short-circuit. I nip at his lower lip, and he growls, kissing me even deeper.
I’ve never felt anything like this.
We break apart, breathing hard. My hands are still on his thigh and his chest, and it takes a second for me to let go.
I can’t look at him. My whole body feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical socket. “Sorry. This was… unprofessional,” I mutter, heat crawling up my neck.
He laughs, soft and disbelieving. “Star, you’re the only thing in this town that’s made me feel alive in years. I wanted to kiss you the second I walked in here the first time.”
He’s so serious it knocks the air right out of me.
“I want you,” he says. “I want you more than I want my next breath.”
I close my eyes and let the words settle in. “Tanner, I… I’ve never done anything like this.”
He stands, closing the distance between us in two steps. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
I look up at him, all six-foot-six of heat and hope and raw, unfiltered want. “This is moving really fast.” Like at the freaking speed of light.
He stands up and holds out his hand to me. “We can slow things down a bit. Let me take you out on real date.” I feel like a ping-pong ball. One second, he’s about to devour me, and the next, he’s asking me out on a first date. Holy cow.
I can’t help it; I start to smile. It’s stupid and giddy and completely outside my control.
“Okay,” I say, and it’s the easiest yes of my life.
His grin is pure, devastating heat. My heart might actually melt out of my body and puddle onto the mat.
He reaches for his phone. “Let me get your number,” he says, and the way he’s looking at me, I instantly fumble mine. I rattle it off, tripping over my own area code. He types it in, thumb slow and deliberate, then sends me a text so I’ll have his.
“Are you available Friday night?” he asks, and all I can do is nod my head “yes.”
“Send me your address and I’ll pick you up at seven.” His voice is pure promise, low and rough, and holy hell, I want it to be Friday already.
I nod, like a total idiot, heart fluttering in my chest, and brain officially short-circuited. For once, I don’t even try to play it cool. I don’t think I could if I tried.