“It’s raining,” I say, because that’s apparently the most intelligent thing my brain can scrape together while she’s upside down, ass in the air, and I’m one breath away from losing whatever self-control I pretend to have.
“It rain-yogas beautifully,” she replies smug as hell.
“That’s not a word or a thing.”
“Anything can be a word if you say it confidently.”
I should walk inside.I should shut the door, grab my guitar, and scream my frustration into a bridge and chorus.No, I should go upstairs to the drums room and bang them until I calm the fuck down.
But I don’t do either one of those things.
Nope.
I stare at her like a fucking idiot.Like a man who hasn’t been touched in months—okay, make that years.
Like a man who wants to pull her out of that pose and make her drip for something other than the rain.
Because fuck me, I do.
I want to grab her by the hips, plant her right here on this balcony, and sink into her while the city sleeps behind us.I want to fuck her through every yoga pose she throws at me like it’s not foreplay.
Downward Dog?I’d wreck her in it.
Child’s Pose?I’d make her whimper my name into the wet wood.
Savasana?I’d make her beg for rest.
And none of this is okay.
Because I don’t get involved.Not anymore.Not since the last time ended in broken strings and in rehab.But she stares right back—like she sees right through me.Like she knows what I’m thinking and doesn’t fucking care.Almost as if she’s daring me to step into the fire she’s pretending isn’t burning under all that calm.
There’s a smirk tugging at her mouth like she already won.As if she already knows I’m going to give in.
And fuck, maybe she’s right.
She’s infuriating.
She’s luminous.
She’s the exact kind of distraction that ruins you in all the best and worst ways.
And right now?She’s soaked.Her tank’s clinging to her shoulders, nearly see-through where the rain or sweat touched it.Those leggings are practically painted on, and I’m sure if I shifted an inch to the right, I’d get a front row seat to everything I’m trying not to want.
Fuck.
“How long were you standing there?”she asks, wiping a raindrop from her cheek with the back of her hand.
Long enough to picture dropping to my knees and dragging your yoga pants down with my teeth,I want to say.
I don’t.
“Long enough to question your judgment.”I aim for disdain, really try, but it comes out low—too low.Lust-soaked and frayed at the edges.My voice almost implies that I’m seconds from begging.For a taste of her mouth.Her skin.Her pussy.
My cock throbs hard behind denim that’s doing absolutely nothing to help.I almost groan out loud.
“Questioning the whole yoga while it’s cold and raining—even if you don’t get wet—” I break off, groaning for real this time, dragging a palm down my face like that’ll scrub the word from the air.
Wet.
