I settle into a straddle bat position, checking my height. Need enough space for what comes next. "Thanks. Though my core's definitely plotting murder right now."
My hands grip the silks as I set up the wraps for a Triple Star, ensuring each one is perfectly secure because face-planting isn’t on today’s agenda. The positioning has to be exact. It took weeks just to nail the technique.
Once everything's locked in, I take a deep breath and let go.
The world spins as I drop, my body following the spiral pathway, each rotation precise. Adrenalinefloods my system as I catch the final wrap exactly where I need to, suspended a few feet from the floor.
Holy fuck.
Nothing else gives me this kind of high. Well . . . except maybe Zach's dick.
These private lessons hit differently than performing at the club ever did. Back then, it was all about the tease, making sure some lonely fucker got his money's worth.
But here, I push my body simply to see what it can do, chasing that perfect line.
When my feet hit the mat, Danica hands me a towel, her silver-streaked bun still irritatingly perfect. "You know, you've got real talent, Merci. Not merely the physical ability, but something . . . more."
I dab at my face, quirking an eyebrow. "Like what, my stunning personality?"
She laughs, shaking her head. "No, though that's certainly . . . unique. I mean the way you connect with the art form. The emotional investment." She pauses, her expression growing thoughtful. "I wish Zach could have found that kind of therapy after his accident."
My hand stills, the towel hanging forgotten from my fingers. "Therapy?"
She gestures around the studio at the silks swaying gently in the AC. "Many people find healing here. After trauma, sexual assault, abuse. . . " Her voicesoftens. “There's something empowering about reclaiming your body through movement."
My fingers trace the edge of the silk beside me. "I get that. When I'm up there, nothing else exists. It’s just me and the fabric and endless possibility."
"It can be incredibly effective. The focus required, the trust you have to develop in yourself and your equipment, the sense of achievement when you nail a new move. It all builds confidence and helps process trauma in a physical way."
"I . . ." Something clicks into place. "Would you . . . I mean, if you ever need help with classes or anything. . . "
She reaches out, squeezing my shoulder gently. "I'd love to have your help. If you’re serious, you can start by assisting with the intro classes to learn proper spotting techniques and safety protocols. Then after a few months, if you're still interested, we can look into getting you certified as an instructor."
“Really?" I try to play it cool but probably fail spectacularly.
"Come by Tuesday evening. I've got a beginner silk class. You can observe first, then we'll talk about a proper apprenticeship schedule."
Holy shit. Holy actual shit.
A real job. Teaching aerial. And maybe even the possibility of helping people work through their shit theway I work through mine up in the silks. My hands are literally shaking.
I'm still processing when the studio door opens and Zach walks in, all broad shoulders and compression pants that should be illegal in at least forty states.
"My overprotective knight. Right on schedule." I bounce over and jump into his arms, planting the wettest, most obnoxious kiss on his cheek. "Miss me, baby?"
His hands settle on my hips. "You're sweaty."
"And you're a killjoy." I can't help grinning. "But I love you anyway."
That tiny furrow appears between his brows as he studies my face—the one that means his brain's working overtime to process. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"Because I just had an epiphany about what I want to do with my life." I wrap my arms around his neck, playing with the short hairs on his nape. "Also, your ass looks fucking incredible in those pants. So, multitasking."
A growl rumbles through his chest. "Brat."
"You’re a brat," I correct, then kiss him properly this time.
Someone clears their throat.
