Her, on her back with her legs hooked over my shoulders as I drive deep thrusts into her body.
Her, back pressed into the wall after I shred that spandex and hitch her leg up my side before giving her every inch of me.
I imagine eating her Georgia peach until there isn’t a lick of juice left, and then twisting her around to nibble up her legs and doing the same thing to her sweet center.
My cock grows an inch from each dirty thought, giving me half a chub. I internally sigh. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. I shouldn’t be thinking abouther. Or anyone, for that matter. I don’t have the time to give to someone. And how can I take a relationship seriously when anyone who’s with me will be in danger of the same shit I’ve been dealing with for years?
Her hands crawl back to her feet, and ever so slowly, she curls back up into a standing position, her spine straight. She lifts an arm up over her head and leans into a stretch.
Jesus Christ, that skin of hers.
I bet it’s salty from her workout.
And smooth as can fucking be.
I swallow down the urge to charge in there and take her up against the opposite wall, which happens to be sporting floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Getting the chance to fuck her against them would be a goddamn dream.
She lifts her other arm, and it’s at that exact moment her eyes meet mine. I watch as recognition dawns on her flushed face.
She knows it’s me.
She knows I’m watching her.
Yet she does nothing to stop her routine.
She presses into her stretch all while her gaze stays glued to mine through the mirror, and I go back to that first time we met. I didn’t know a lot about her then. I still don’t, but I saw something in her eyes. Something I can’t quite explain but feel.
And I wonder, has Webber?
Has he ever looked into those almond eyes and seen the story of her life play out? I can’t decipher exact memories orwhat people’s faces look like, but I can sense her agony in my own heart, the same sort of sadness that pushes her underwater enough to fill her lungs.
It feels an awful lot like my own struggles.
I ignore my need for hydration and push my way into the room. I close the door quietly behind me, not wanting to interrupt what she’s doing too much. I pluck the buds from my ears and pocket them.
What sounds like meditation music wraps around me. It immediately eases my stress, the soft piano melody reaching in and smoothing out the roughest parts of me.
She moves on with her next move. I’m no yoga pro, but her body looks like it’s in perfect formation. Her shoulders are back and squared, her face held high. From twenty-ish feet away, she breathes deeply and purposefully, helping her body through the physical exertion.
Still don’t understand why Webber passed this up.
I’m not sure how long I stand there before she runs a palm over her forehead, takes one last deep breath and steps off her mat. She leans down to press a button on her phone, the case printed with daisies just like her sportswear—what is it with her and that simple white flower?—before tucking it into the waistband of her bottoms.
“Still haven’t learned to knock, I see.”
“Maybe you can help me work on my manners.”
She turns and gives me a look I can’t place, though it looks an awful lot like she’s enjoying my banter. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you any?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
“It is,” I agree. “Have you been practicing yoga for long?”
I already know the answer to this. I can tell from the way she moves so effortlessly into her poses. My workout took theedge off, but I want to keep her talking. Her voice has the same calming effect as the piano music did, and I’m desperate for it.
She rolls her mat, then bends down to prop it under her arm. “A couple of months.”
