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We cycle through a few rounds, and every time I correct him—shoulders, hips, the line of his neck—he follows instantly, like he’s tuned into my wavelength.

The room is quiet except for our breathing and the faint buzz of traffic outside. The music playlist finally settles on a slow, haunting acoustic track, and I want to thank the universe for throwing me a bone.

After the warm-up, I have him sink into child’s pose and hover nearby, trying to give myself a minute to get it together.

We move into the next set of poses. I have him stand, then step back into a lunge. He’s so tall I have to tip my head up to see his face, and when I step in to correct his stance, my chest nearly brushes his arm.

He looks down at me, all earnest, and asks, “Is this good?”

I nod, unable to speak for a second, because all my blood has abandoned my brain in favor of making me feel every single nerve ending in my body.

His eyes flick down to my lips, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me right there, in the middle of the studio. My whole body tightens with anticipation, and then he looks away, clearing his throat like he’s the one who just crossed the line.

The next half-hour is more of the same. Flow, adjust, pretend I’m not on the edge of a minor nervous breakdown every time his skin touches mine. My mind is a mess of lust and panic and a little bit of joy, because holy shit, this man makes me feel alive.

When we finally wind down, I cue him to sit cross-legged on the mat, hands on his knees. “Close your eyes,” I say, voice softer than usual. “Let yourself relax.”

He actually does it, which is somehow the hottest thing I’ve seen all year.

I sit next to him, close enough that our knees almost touch. My own hands are fisted in my lap.

The room is quiet, the music low. The scent of sage hangs in the air, grounding and earthy.

After a minute, he opens his eyes and turns to me. “Thank you, Star,” he says, voice low and sincere.

“For what?” My voice cracks, because of course it does.

“For not making me feel like a moron.”

I laugh, relieved and exhausted. “You’re the best former yoga virgin I’ve had all year.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

He grins at me, all wicked and hot, and my skin flushes from head to toe.

“Actually,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and velvet, “think you can pencil me in for the same time next week? Or every week, really. I want you. For private sessions.”

My brain goes blank at the way he says, “I want you.” My breath catches. I nod, because I literally can’t speak.

He leans closer, smelling like leather and sage, and for a second, I think he might just kiss me. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m worried he can hear it.

“Wednesday nights,” I manage, somehow keeping my voice steady. “Yours.”

His eyes darken as he stares down at me. “Perfect,” he purrs. “See you next week, Star.”

And just like that, I have a standing Wednesday night date—with the hottest, cockiest, sweetest cowboy I’ve ever let into my orbit. If I actually believed in fate, I’d say it was a cosmic conspiracy. But right now, it just feels like I’m about to spontaneously combust from how badly I want him.

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My brain is a one-woman Tanner Carrington highlight reel. Every Wednesday night, he walks through my door looking like the cover of Texas Rancher Magazine, and my self-control crumbles into dust.

He’s always early. Always grinning. Always has a look in his eyes like he wants to eat me alive. I spend hours obsessing over him. Nothing else matters.

Every session, he lets me put my hands all over him, dialing my desire for him up to high. He listens. He follows. He flirts like it’s his job. Sometimes I catch him staring, hungry and shameless, like he wants to devour me right there on the mat.

I’m falling. Hard. No warning. No parachute. And honestly? I think I love it.

We’re coming to the end of another session when he looks at me, and the silence blooms into something warm and sweet. My heart starts doing somersaults as the temperature in the room spikes.

His breath stutters, just a fraction, and I catch the way his eyes darken. There’s a line between us now, bright and trembling, and I know if I cross it, there’s no going back.