Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Tank: Hey. Just wanted to let you know that I made it home safe. And to thank you for a great night. Sleep well, and see you on Sunday.
It’s simple, direct—just like him—but enough to send another giddy grin creeping across my face.
Me: You, too. Maybe we can grab a smoothie or a coffee or something after your lesson? I can leave Mr. Sniffles at home for a couple hours so we can talk without fearing another toxic airborne event.
Tank: Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll be looking forward to it.
Me: Me too.
I press my phone to my chest with a happy sigh.
This feels right. Whatever this is, wherever it’s going, I want to see it through, to learn whatever lessons this connection has to teach me.
As I finally make my way to the shower, I find myself humming under the spray, a lightness in my heart that hasn’t been there in longer than I care to admit. Falling for a grumpy hockey player with a troubled past wasn’t on my vision board for this year.
But then, the universe has a funny way of giving us what we need, even when we don’t know we need it.
CHAPTER 7
TANK
I’m a pervert.
A complete and total fucking pervert.
That’s the only explanation.
“Fold forward and reach for your toes, keeping your spine long and your knees soft at first,” Stephanie says, but all I can think about as her hands track slowly from my mid-back toward the base of my spine, is how much I want her hands everywhere else.
Deep, slow breaths and constantly bringing my thoughts back to the mat are barely enough to keep me from pitching a tent in my yoga pants. I’ve been seconds away from a “hot-for-teacher” inspired hard-on since I walked through the door an hour ago.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been replaying that kiss over and over in my head since Friday, to the point that I had to take matters into my own hands last night just to get to sleep. The fact that I was jerking off to fantasies about the sexy as hell woman crouched behind me as I sit, reaching for my toes, is wrecking any shot I had at Zen.
“Good,” she murmurs in a husky voice that does further damage to my self-control. “Release the tension in your jaw and see if you can breathe all the way down here, at the small of your back. Try to breathe into my hands.”
I follow her instructions, relaxing, breathing, trying to get my act together and focus on the work. My hamstrings burn, but in a good way that tells me I’m making progress, and my shoulders don’t hurt at all in a forward fold anymore. Just two private sessions and three group classes, and I’ve made impressive progress.
She’s an excellent teacher.
And so stunning in that green tank top that brings out the gold flecks in her eyes that it almost hurts to look at her.
“Beautiful, Tank,” she murmurs, rubbing her hands up and down on my back, sending electricity prickling across my skin. “Now, lie down and we’ll do a quick throat opener before moving into savasana.”
The scent of her—that vanilla and clove mixture I can’t get enough of—intensifies as I sit up, bringing my face level with hers as she shifts to kneel at the side of my mat.
She squeezes my bicep. “How are you feeling?”
How am I feeling?
I feel like every time her fingers make contact with my skin, I’m a battery connecting to the grid. And right now, that battery is fully charged.
Against my will, my gaze drops to her mouth. I can’t help it. Just like I can’t help remembering how soft her lips were against mine, how sweet she tasted, how much I loved hearing that little sigh as she opened for me, letting me in. I’ve been on edge since Friday night, my body humming with a longing I haven’t felt in years.
And now, suddenly, it’s all on the surface.
Maybe it’s the fact that the session is almost over, maybe it’s all the deep breathing and that “yoga voice” of hers that drives me crazy, but the tension is quickly becoming unbearable.
The room feels warmer than it did a few seconds ago, charged with an energy that has everything to do with the woman leaning closer as she whispers, “Tank? Are you okay?”
“No,” I murmur, my voice husky. “I’m not okay. I’m a bad yoga student.”
She blinks in surprise. “What? No, you’re not. You’re doing great.”
“Is it great that I can’t stop thinking about kissing you?” I ask.
Her cheeks flush as her gaze locks with mine. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirm. Her braids are pulled back in a high ponytail again, accentuating the elegant line of her neck, and I want to kiss my way down her throat more than I want my next breath.