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.”
