Hot & Heavy Page 8

  “Thunderbolt pose?” he says with a grin. “I think I’m going to like this one.”

  When I just look at him questioningly, the smile fades to be replaced with obvious consternation. “You really don’t follow football at all, do you?” He says it like he’s afraid I’m about to admit to being a puppy murderer. Or worse.

  “I don’t, no.” I’ve never felt the need to apologize for my lack of interest in sports, but something about the disappointment in his eyes makes me feel bad. “I do know that you play football. Like Hunter.”

  “Wow.” The disappointment is rapidly being replaced with amused disbelief. “That’s…impressive. And do you know the name of San Diego’s football team? The team I play for?”

  I wrack my brain, but all I can come up with is “The Padres?”

  He cracks up. “No, sweetheart, that’s baseball. I play for the Lightning. Hence the whole Thunderbolt thing. I was just—”

  “Making a joke. I get it now.” I duck my head to hide my hot cheeks. It’s not embarrassment that I didn’t know the name of San Diego’s football team that has me blushing, though. It’s that he called me sweetheart.

  I like it, way more than I should considering I have no intention of hopping back into bed with Shawn, no matter how good he made me feel the first time. And no matter how much I want to.

  “Hey.” He reaches out, rests a finger underneath my chin and presses up—gently—until I have no choice but to meet his gaze. Even that small touch sends shivers down my spine. Or maybe it’s the look in those dark, dark eyes of his, like he wants to coddle me and eat me up all at the same time. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “You sure about that? Because if your cheeks get any redder—”

  “I’m sure.” I gesture to the mats at our feet. “Ready to try thunderbolt?”

  He grins. “Just tell me where and how you want me.”

  I am soooooo not touching that one. Instead, I push up to my knees, keeping my back straight as I sink down so that my butt rests on my heels, then wait for Shawn to do the same.

  Once he does, I tell him, “Okay. Now you’re going to put your left hand on your lower back. Don’t fist it. Just rest it there, open, with your palm facing out.”

  As he does that, I continue, “We’re going to lean forward from the hips. As we do, you’re going to sweep your right arm to the side and behind your back, so that your hands link up. You’re going to turn your face to the left and rest your cheek on the mat, but make sure you keep most of your weight on your legs. Does that make sense?”

  When I glance at Shawn to see if he got all the instructions, he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “Too fast?” I ask.

  “No, I got what you said. I just…how exactly am I supposed to keep from falling on my face when I do this?”

  “That’s what your core is for.” My gaze drifts, without my permission, down to the eight-pack he’s sporting. “I’m pretty sure you can handle it.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “Here, let me show you.” I do exactly what I told him, sucking my stomach in as I lean forward to help me control how slowly I go down. Once my cheek is pressed against the mat, I say, “Once in this position you’re going to hold it for at least two minutes before lifting back up and then switching arms before repeating.”

  I return to standing knee position and put my right hand behind my back. Then sweep my left one around as I bend forward until my right cheek is on the mat. I hold the position for several seconds before returning to home.

  “Okay, think you can try it?” I ask as I turn back to look at Shawn. And nearly gasp at the heat—the intensity—in his eyes as they rake over me.

  For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything. And neither do I. Instead, we just stare at each other as tension builds, hot and overwhelming, between us. My breathing grows shallow, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and every nerve ending I have starts to scream—starts to plead—for his touch. For the pleasure he brought me so easily, so completely, just a few nights ago.

  Favor to Emerson be damned, I tell myself as my panties—and what’s underneath them—nearly combust on the spot. Self-preservation trumps friendship and right now every instinct I have is telling me to flee. And also to throw myself at him and to hell with the consequences.

  I don’t appreciate the competing messages—or the confusion they bring.

  It’s that confusion, and the way it makes me feel all topsy-turvy inside, that gives me the strength to pull my gaze from his. To put a little more distance between us. To say, “Your turn.”

  “Sage.” It’s more growl than word when he says it like that, and every muscle in my body tightens with desire.

  I force a smile I’m far from feeling, gesture to the mat in front of him. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

  He doesn’t move for long seconds, and I can’t help wondering if he’s going to push the issue, going to push this bizarre attraction that neither one of us is very good at hiding…or ignoring. But in the end he just nods and straightens into a standing kneel, right hand behind his back.

  As I suspected, he’s got total control of his core as he leans forward easily and places his cheek on the mat. But he only rests there a few seconds before starting to come up and instinctively I lean forward, resting one hand on his shoulder and the other on the small of his back to hold him in place.

  “You need to hold the pose for two minutes,” I tell him, pushing down with only a little bit of pressure.

  He tenses—though I’m not sure if it’s my touch or my instructions that have his muscles going so tight. Either way, it’s the opposite of what he should be doing so I quickly take my hands away. And ignore the way they’re tingling, just from rubbing over his skin.

  He makes a small sound of protest, but he doesn’t move—and neither do I. And I sure as hell don’t put my hands back, no matter how much I want to.

  The next one hundred and twenty seconds tick by So. Excruciatingly. Slowly. By the time he finally moves back to start pose, my nerves are stretched taut as a circus high wire. And that’s before I get a look at his face, all harsh planes, tight jaw and burning hot eyes.

  God. If I’m not careful, I’m going to end up against the nearest wall again, screaming his name as he buries himself balls deep inside me. The thought should horrify me—God knows I spent most of Sunday traumatized by my behavior in that bar—but all it does is get me hot. There’s just something about Shawn that breaks down my normal inhibitions, that has me forgetting all the reasons I don’t do things like that with men like him.

  And that scares me. A lot.

  Because doing that, throwing caution to the wind and leaping before I look? That’s my mom, not me. She’s spent her life like that, jumping on each and every adventure that comes her way. More times than not, she lands on her feet. But the times she doesn’t?

  The times she doesn’t are terrifying. And they would be way worse than they have been if I wasn’t around to catch her as she falls—and to pick up the pieces.

  There’s no one around to catch me if I leap, no one around to keep me from shattering like Humpty Dumpty falling off his wall. Which, in my opinion, is a more than good enough reason for me not to leap at all.

  “Hey, Sage.” Shawn’s voice is less growly now and more concerned. “You good?”

  It snaps me back to the present, snaps me back to the reason we’re here to begin with. “Yeah, absolutely. Now, do it again on the other side.”

  Instead of dropping into the pose, he stays where he is, watching me. Because I can feel myself getting sucked in, feel myself starting to drown in those black magic eyes of his, my voice is sharp when I say, “Well? Are you going to do it or are you just going to waste my time?”

  His brows go up, but
he doesn’t say anything before dropping into thunderbolt pose on his other side. The next two minutes tick by in silence, and when he returns to starting pose, I’m ready for him.

  “The next one is a variation of Locust pose moving into Cobra pose. You need to lie on your stomach, both hands crossed, palms up, on your lower back.” I demonstrate, turning my head to the left as I wait for him to move into position.

  “Yoga isn’t just about doing the movement correctly,” I continue when he’s lying on the ground, mimicking my pose. “It’s about how you breathe while you’re doing the movement. So in Locust pose, you’re going to breathe out as you lift your upper body off the ground.” Again I demonstrate and wait for him to follow my instructions.

  “Good. Now, we’re going to add on. Exhale as you lie back down on the ground. This time, when you come up, you’re going to inhale and sweep your left arm all the way out and around until you can rest the edge of your hand on your forehead, like you’re giving a salute.”

  He does as instructed, and we spend the next half an hour—before the studio officially opens—going through various poses. A few times it looks like Shawn wants to say something that has nothing to do with yoga, but each time, I cut him off before he can hijack the session and take it someplace I have no intention of going.

  We end in Corpse pose, and I keep him there for several minutes, even though I can feel the impatience radiating off of him. I don’t know if it’s because he’s anxious to get out of here or because he wants to force the conversation onto the weird attraction between us or if he just doesn’t like sitting still.

  It could be all three, but whatever it is, he’s going to have to learn to deal with it. Yoga isn’t just a series of stretches and if he wants to get the therapeutic benefit from it, he really needs to give its proper practice a chance.

  “So, how do you feel?” I ask after I finally let him climb to his feet. “How’s the tightness in your shoulder and back?” I don’t make the mistake of trying to find out for myself by touching him again. I’ve worked too hard for the last half an hour to bring us back there with one careless press of my hand.

  He stretches out his neck, rolls his shoulder. “Better, actually.”

  He sounds so surprised that I can’t help but laugh. “Yoga isn’t all incense and meditation, you know. It actually does work.”

  I may not be the typical yoga teacher, all calm and peace and the universe has a plan for us, but I’ve been around it my whole life and I know the physical aspect of it works. It’s all the rest that I don’t have any interest in.

  “Maybe it does,” he agrees, but he still sounds a little incredulous. “So where do we go from here?”

  Because a dozen or so ideas flood my brain at his words—and only one or two of them actually have to do with yoga—I take a big step back, mentally and physically. “If you want to come to the registration area, I can fill you in on the different packages we offer, see what classes you think will work for you.”

  “I thought Emerson told you. I can’t do classes. The last thing I need is for the team docs to get wind of the fact that I’m taking therapeutic yoga. It’ll raise all their alarms.”

  “And get you fined again.”

  He shrugs. “Fines I can handle. I’m afraid it’ll get me benched. Or traded.”

  “So, why’d you do it, then? If you knew it was against your contract, knew you could get hurt and might end up ruining your career, why take the risk of jumping off some of the most dangerous cliffs in the world?”

  “I never said the cliffs were dangerous.”

  I shoot him a look as I steer us toward registration—and other people. It’s humiliating to admit, but being alone with him isn’t good for me. Not when the sizzle is still there, no matter how much physical distance I try to put between us.

  “I’m not an idiot. I do know what the cliffs in Acapulco look like.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His brows go up. “You like to dive?”

  “No!” I can’t help laughing at just the idea. “But I’ve watched a lot of Love Boat reruns in my life.”

  “Love Boat reruns? What are you, ninety?” He’s joking, but the insult hits a little too close to home. Probably because it’s what my mom says every time I try to convince her not to do something foolhardy.

  “I’m not. No.” I stop next to the registration desk, which is in the front of the studio. The first classes of the day start in five minutes, and people are milling around, chatting and getting tea or water from the small refreshment counter we have set up against the back wall.

  People are staring at us, and at first I assume it’s because Shawn is so freaking hot. I mean, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off him since I first spotted him at that damn bachelorette party. But as people start reaching for their smartphones, I realize something else is at play here.

  “Come on. Let’s go to my office.” I link my arm with his and spin him away before anyone can get a shot of his face. I thought he was just being overly cautious—not to mention a little egotistical—when he mentioned not wanting to take class for fear of being recognized, but obviously he was right to worry. I must be one of the few people in San Diego that don’t know who Shawn is…

  The only problem with taking Shawn to my office is that now we’re alone again. To combat that fact, I motion for him to sit in the small chair in front of my desk while I practically dive toward my own chair—on the other, safer side of the desk.

  He looks amused, and like he’s about to say something. I rush to get in there before he does, partly because that Love Boat crack still stings and partly because I don’t trust him not to say something that will make my panties drop despite my best intentions.

  “So, if you don’t want to take classes, then I assume you’re interested in personal lessons.” I rummage in my desk drawer for the stack of brochures and price lists I always keep there. “We have a few instructors who meet one-on-one with clients. For therapeutic yoga, and for discretion, I recommend Indigo. She’s one of our master instructors, and she’s really excellent, but she doesn’t come cheap. Still, she’s more than worth the money.”

  “How much if I want you to give me private lessons?” he asks.

  My stomach jumps a little, whether with nerves or excitement I’m not sure. Either way, I tamp it down because there is no way I’m working with Shawn. No way. “I don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have time. Yoga’s my second job, so the several classes I do teach a week are pretty much all I can handle.”

  His eyes narrow suspiciously. “I thought this was your studio?”

  “It’s my mom’s studio. I do the books for her and help out when she needs it.”

  “Help out?” He looks around my office. “Looks like you do a little more than that.”

  I do a lot more than that, but it’s not his business. “She’s in India right now, and I’m running the studio in her absence. But I still have my day job.”

  “And that is?”

  I think about ignoring him, but he looks genuinely curious. Besides, what’s the harm? Maybe knowing I really do have another job will get him to back off a little. “I’m an accountant.”

  “Emerson told me,” he says with a chuckle.

  “I’m not so sure what’s so funny about that,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

  “It’s just…” He stops laughing abruptly, like he’s just figured out that I’m bothered by his amusement. “I’m sorry. But you have to admit accounting and yoga are an unusual combination.”

  “Maybe.” Definitely, but the why and how are none of his business. “Still, it works for me. But it also keeps me very busy, so there’s no way I can take you on as a client. Why don’t you give Indigo a try? If you don’t like her, there are a couple of other instructors we can try. But I’m pretty sure you’ll
love Indigo. Everyone does—”

  “How much will it take to get you to adjust your schedule?”

  “I already told you, I don’t have time to take you on.”

  His smile turns wicked. “And here I thought you already had.”

  “You know what I mean. If you’d like to meet with one of our instructors, please give us a call, and we can set that up for you. If you don’t…”

  I push my chair back, get ready to show him the door. And absolutely, positively ignore the fact that my knees have gone weak at the reminder of all the things we’ve already done to and with each other.

  His big hand closes around my wrist, holds me in place when I would have moved to stand up. Heat from his palm spreads through me, and I start to yank my arm away, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Besides, my office is small and if I take too many steps away from him I’ll end up with my back against the wall, and we both know how that ended the last time.

  “I’m serious,” he tells me even as his thumb strokes the sensitive skin at the inside of my wrist. “I enjoyed working with you today. Name your price for daily yoga sessions.”

  I can’t do that. I just can’t. The gentle way he’s stroking me feels too good, as does the intensity with which he’s watching me—like I’m the sexiest woman on the planet when I know very well that I’m not. If I take him on in private lessons, it won’t be long before we’re sleeping together. From there, the fall from lust to love isn’t that far, especially with a guy like Shawn. And I don’t do love. Not right now and not like that, with daredevils who care more about the next rush than they do their own safety.

  When I don’t answer, he steps around the desk. Tugs me closer. “Come on, Sage. What’s it going to take for you to be my trainer?”

  He’s close now, so close that I can smell the bergamot and orange scent of him and feel his hot breath on my cheek. I can feel myself melting, feel myself giving in to this ridiculous attraction between us.