Me: Why are you here bothering me?
As soon as I open the door, I’m instantly crowded against my wall. The door shuts, secured with a click of the lock as a familiar, firm muscular body presses against my own.
“Because I like—” Pressing his growing hardness against the notch of the apex of my thighs, Foster growls huskily, “bothering you.” His mouth finds mine and our tongues slide against one another as my hand holds onto his head, as if attempting to keep his mouth fused to mine.
Finally coming up for air, both of our breathing labored, we stare at each other a moment before he speaks.
“We need to join the others.”
“Do we?” I ask naughtily. Because—make no mistake—I know what I’d rather be doing tonight. And it’s not getting sweaty in a yoga class at the gym, but in my bedroom with the man standing before me.
The corners of his eyes crinkle with humor. “We do.”
“Fine,” I say on a heavy sigh. “Let me grab my mat, and we can go.” Just as I turn to head down the hall, his hand grasps my forearm and tugs me back, causing me to stumble into him, my palm flying to his chest to steady myself. His other hand guides my head to him, brushing a soft, tender, lingering kiss to my lips before moving away. “That’s incentive to get your mat quickly.” Just as I turn to head down the hallway, I receive a swift slap on my ass.
“Hey!”
He looks smug. “More incentive, Davis.”
Rolling my eyes, I walk to my room to collect my yoga mat. Once out of sight, I allow my smile to spread across my face.
*
That smile on my face earlier? Yeah, that sucker is long gone. The energy it takes for the muscles in my face to smile is too taxing since I’m using all of my other muscles—along with some I never realize I have until this class—and making them work in ways I’m convinced is unnatural for humans.
“I think I’ll just stick to the Lotus position,” I grumble to myself, instantly getting shushed by some older lady in leopard print yoga pants currently executing a perfect Bow Pose or “Danansahsahsahnsa” diagonal from me. Okay, that’s not the actual name of the pose but that’s what it sounded like when Tate pronounced it.
Flexible is one thing; a human pretzel is another. I’m going to give Foster serious hell for making us attend the “warm” yoga class, two steps up from the beginner yoga sessions we’ve attended the few times in the past. I’m clearly not ready for this kind of progression. Me and yoga one-oh-one are B.F.F.’s. We shouldn’t be broken up. Ev-er.
Just when I attempt to give the damn Bow Pose another shot—and promptly fail—I lie there on my mat, sprawled in the most unladylike fashion, completely uncaring. Until someone flicks me right on the side of my thigh, making me hiss.
“Ow!” I whisper-yell, glaring accusingly at Foster, only to get shushed again by leopard print pants lady. I swear to high heavens, if she shushes me one more time, I’m going to beat her over the head with my yoga mat.
Okay, that’s a lie because my arms are far too sore and weak for that. Not to mention, I’m certain that goes against all principles of yoga. We’re supposed to be finding our Zen and peaceful happiness and all that jazz.
Except, not only am I failing at this level of yoga, I’ve got this really hot guy beside me and every time he does a pose requiring him to bend a certain way, his shirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of his abs and recall the last time my lips were on them. The last time I licked them just before my lips moved lower, used my tongue to toy with his pierced cock which made him go wild and— A low, hissing reaches my ears. “Focus.” My eyes fly up to meet Foster’s amused gaze and I give him my best squinty glare. Because, really. He can’t be a good Samaritan and let me have a moment of lusting over his body since he’s the one who insisted we all suffer through this class?
Finally—fi-nal-ly—Tate ends the class and I allow myself to remain sprawled on my mat. I don’t care because I’m sweaty, disgusting, and my muscles feel like goo. I even ignore the chuckles from my coworkers as they clean and roll up their own mats. It isn’t until a large hand is thrust in my line of sight I realize I’ve probably been lying here for far longer than is socially acceptable. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to get up.
“Davis,” there’s a slight warning in Foster’s tone, “time to get up and go.”
I groan. “Not ready yet.”
He leans over me and whispers, “Get up and leave now; we can have that fun you were thinking about earlier.”
I whisper back suspiciously, “How do you know I was thinking about having fun with you?’
“Because you licked your lips and eyed my cock.”