The weight between us lingers, the earlier lightness swallowed by something heavier. I glance at the clock, itching for an escape.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat, “stretching?”
Alicia laughs, her cheerfulness snapping back into place like a rubber band. “Right,” she says, clapping her hands. “Let’s start.”
I drop onto the mat, letting the motion ground me. Focus. Breathe. Stretch. Simple. But her words from earlier stick, clinging to the back of my mind like burrs.
It’s always easier to let people see the surface. Easier than letting them dig.
The room hums with soft ambient music, low lights casting long shadows. The air is still, too calm, the kind of quiet that hints at something lurking beneath. Maybe it’s Alicia’s energy, or the way she watches me—like she knows a secret I don’t.
She moves toward me, fluid, precise. I shift back, but she’s already in my space. Her smile is sweet on the surface, but there’s something sharper underneath. My shoulders tense. This isn’t just about stretching.
“Let’s take it slow,” she says, her voice smooth, almost teasing. “Follow my lead.”
I nod, trying to match her coolness, but inside, my thoughts churn. This isn’t how I pictured tonight. Not that I expected a formal yoga session, but this? This feels different. Too close. Too controlled. Too... her.
She sinks effortlessly into a perfect Downward Dog, each movement seamless, like water pouring into its shape. I follow—or try to. My arms tremble under my weight, muscles already protesting.
Alicia notices.
“Here,” she murmurs, her voice low, velvety—like a command wrapped in warmth.
Before I can blink, she’s in my space, close enough that my brain short-circuits. Her hands land on my shoulders, firm and steady, but there’s pressure behind them, something controlled yet insistent. The pads of her fingers press into my skin, deliberate, slow. She moves like she knows exactly what she’s doing—like she’s used to making the world bend around her.
Then her fingers trail down my spine, light at first, but with each inch, the weight of her touch grows. It’s not just physical. There’s something else, something electric. A slow-building charge that sparks beneath my skin, flaring into heat.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I want to turn, to read her expression, to search her face for a clue as to what the hell she’s trying to do to me. But I can’t. I don’t trust my voice—or my thoughts—right now, not when her scent lingers in the air between us. Clean, warm, faintly sweet. It clings to me, a pull I can’t shake.
Focus. Breathe. Stay still.
Good advice. Too bad my body refuses to cooperate. My arms tremble, my muscles strain, and her presence crowds out everything else—like she’s bending the air around me, pressing in without ever really touching.
I falter again.
She steps around me, her movements smooth, controlled. A predator assessing its prey. Her gaze never wavers, and I feel it linger on my back, heavy with amusement. Like she’s savoring the way I’m trying—failing—to hold it together.
“Straighten your back.” Her voice lilts, teasing.
Then her fingers brush the nape of my neck. A slow, deliberate drag down my spine. Cool, electrifying, like she’s branding me without ever leaving a mark. The pressure is just enough to test my composure, to see if I’ll flinch. She moves with the precision of someone who’s done this before—who knows exactly where to press, where to linger, how to push.
"I’m trying," I mutter, voice strained, caught between frustration and... something else. I can’t tell if it’s my muscles giving out or if it’s the way my pulse has started hammering in my throat.
She circles me again, close enough that I can feel the shift in the air around her. And then her hands are everywhere—skimming my shoulders, tracing down my arms, mapping me out like I’m something to be studied. It’s not rushed, not slow. Just deliberate. Like she’s watching, waiting to see if I break.
And honestly? I might.
What the hell is she doing to me?
I don’t know how to react, but one thing’s clear: I don’t know how to breathe without her touch.
"Relax," she whispers, stepping in front of me, voice like honey slipping into my ears.
Then, the lightest brush of her fingers against mine—barely there, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. I freeze, breath caught in my throat. Everything shrinks down to the press of her skin against mine, the weight of her gaze locking onto me like a target. The world narrows, and the only thing left is the pounding of my heartbeat, loud and insistent.
Hold it together. You’ve got this, Carlos.
Except... I don’t.
Because this? This isn’t yoga anymore. This is some kind of dating sim, and I’m failing every single interaction. Do I get bonus points for not running away? Should I be doing something—anything—more smooth?
God, why did I think yoga was a good idea?
“Carlos,” she says, low, playful. “You’re doing great.”
There’s an edge to it. A challenge. My heart pounds, but not from the poses. It’s her—the way she’s controlling this moment, stretching it out, waiting.
I stand there, shaky but trying to keep it together. Inside, I’m unraveling. She’s leading, steering every interaction, and I can’t figure out how to wrest back control.
Alicia leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “You can let go, you know,” she murmurs, voice dripping with something I don’t want to name.
And that’s when it hits me.
There’s no escape. No graceful exit. She set the rules. I’m just playing along.
Trapped.