Yeah, well, now we’re both burning alive.
She transitioned into downward dog—because of course she did—pressing her palms flat while her ass shot skyward like a beacon of pure temptation.
This is fine. I’m a grown man. I’ve survived hostile takeovers and boardroom bloodbaths. I can handle one tiny woman in …
Jesus Christ, are those actual lace panties?
They barely covered the curve of her ass, and I could see the outline of everything that had haunted my dreams for the past decade.
“Stop.” My voice came out rougher than sandpaper.
Did she stop? Hell no. Dakota Blackwood had never stopped anything fun in her life.
She pivoted slowly, deliberately, giving me a front-row view of abs that belonged in a fitness magazine and breasts that were clearly enjoying the show as much as she was.
She’s doing this on purpose. She has to be. No one does yoga in Victoria’s Secret sexwear unless they’re planning a murder. And I’m definitely the victim.
Look away, Pierce. Look. Away.
I tried. Really, I did. But as I desperately tried to escape the room and head into the kitchen, my eyes had other plans, staying glued to the gentle curve of her waist.
CRASH.
My hip collided with the foyer table hard enough to rattle my teeth. A crystal vase wobbled dangerously.
“Everything okay over there?” She tilted her head, batting those long lashes. “You seem a little … distracted.”
My dick throbbed at the sultry rasp in her voice, then did a full-on salute when she trailed her tongue slowly along her bottom lip.
I’ve made grown men weep during negotiations. I will NOT be defeated by Dakota in … holy shit, is that tank top see-through? I can see her nipples.
Which were hard. And perfectly outlined as she arched her back, reaching toward the ceiling like she was putting on a private strip show.
“I’m great,” I lied through gritted teeth. The pain in my hip was nothing compared to the ache building behind my zipper.
All these years, I’d wondered what Dakota looked like with less clothes. I’d fantasized about her in my bed, bent over while I took her from behind, her whispering my name like a prayer. She was even more devastatingly beautiful than every forbidden dream combined.
“Really?” She shifted into what had to be the most obscene yoga pose ever invented. “Because the usually confident Axel Pierce looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust.”
Because I’m staring at the one woman I can never have. And feeling more tempted than ever before.
“I’m fine,” I managed, though my claim would’ve landed better if my dick wasn’t straining against my pants like it was trying to escape.
“So …” She moved into warrior pose, arms stretched wide, legs slightly parted, head cocked at that perfect angle that made my brain short-circuit. “Where were you tonight? Hot date?”
“Out,” I growled.
“Mmm.” Her lips curved into a knowing smile. And then she had the evilness to bend again, slowly this time. “If you were with another woman, your poor fake fiancée would be devastated. What would Rebecca say?”
“I wasn’t with another woman.”
“But I bet you wanted to be.” She shifted into cobra pose: chest pushed forward, back arched, looking like every wet dream I’d ever had. “It’s got to be killing you, staring down weeks, maybe even months of celibacy. No touching.” She knelt and ran her hands down her abs. “No kissing.” She wet her lips again. “No hot, sweaty, all-night?—”
“Stop.” The word came out strangled.
“I’m just empathizing,” she said, spreading her legs wider as she moved into some position that should’ve been illegal in twelve states. “It must be so hard, knowing you can’t have any relief.”
What is she doing to me?
