I flop onto my couch with all the grace of a fainting goat—which, coincidentally, is also how I’d describe my current yoga skill level.
The session with Adam left me feeling like a pretzel—a slightly overheated, very confused pretzel—who can’t figure out if it wants to be in a bakery or doing naked downward dog with my personal trainer.
My body’s still buzzing from the surprise yoga session with Adam. Not to mention the memory of his hands guiding my hips, and his breath warm on my neck as he adjusted my posture.
Whatever it is about him, it’s more than physical. There’s a stirring inside me that I can’t quite name. And to be quite frank, I’m a little scared to.
As I lay there, contemplating my life and whether I might need to hire a crane to hoist me up later, I can’t help but be amazed by Adam.
He’s like the hero from one of my steamier scenes, except he wears sexy tank tops that showcase his incredible arm muscles and doesn’t solely exist on a page.
And let’s be honest, no man in my books has ever made me feel like I need a safe word for stretching.
I chortle to myself at that thought but still don’t make a move to leave the warm embrace of my couch cushions.
I need to work—to write—but I’m not sure I’ve got it in me tonight. There’s a frantic energy—something building that needs release.
Staring at the ceiling, I huff a laugh.
Being hot and bothered is part of the job description. It’s how some of my steamiest scenes have become literary art.
So, begrudgingly, I stand up and walk over to my writing nook. I open my laptop, but the blank document stares back at me like the final round of a staring contest I’m about to lose.
Instead of typing, my mind does a backbend right into the memory of Club Nocté. The dim lights, the scent of mystery, and possibly too much cologne in the air—it’s all there.
I close my eyes, surrendering to the daydream.
It’s less of writing a scene and more of mentally choreographing one. And, boy, do the characters move in ways that would make tonight’s yoga instructor blush—or who knows, maybe she’d give me a high-five for imaginative flexibility.
The daydream spins out of control, and I’m caught in a whirlwind of ‘what-ifs’ that leave me wishing I had a way to bring it to life again.
The man at Nocté was so incredibly attentive. Sexy in a way I’ve never experienced and certainly built in a way that only Greek gods have been known to be. His muscles had muscles.
Never in a million years should I have been having sex with a man like him—and yet, that’s what we did.
All.
Night.
Long.
Like we were a couple of sex-deprived rabbits ready to repopulate the earth.
Every surface, every angle …
Lord, I did things that would make my characters clutch their pearls.
But the best part …
Not once did he make me feel out of place or too fat to fuck.
No, he made me feel like I was the air he desperately needed to breathe and every touch was something that could bring him to his knees.
He was sexy in a way I didn’t even know existed. And that’s saying something since I make a living dreaming up new ways for my characters to cop a feel.
In his eyes, that night I felt so sexy. So beautiful and intriguing. And I’ve never, ever seen myself that way—but always wished I had.
I guess that’s all thanks to my Zoey persona.
I embraced all she is and stands for and definitely seized the moment—amongst other things. Large, girthy things.
An involuntary shudder skitters down my spine as I think about the rest of his physique hidden below the belt. His long, hard length in my hand, my mouth—hell, everywhere.
Whew, that night…
I fan myself, my core tightening and nipples hardening just at the thought.
The tension has to go somewhere, and let’s just say, the shower head and I have become better acquainted as of late.
Right now, I definitely hear its siren song.
Slowly lifting from the cushy fabric of my desk chair, I make my way to the bathroom with a purpose that screams release.
Release from my new workout shirt.
From my yoga pants.
My hairband.
From everything.
When the water has warmed up, I step into the stream, allowing it to consume me. The warmth rushes across my neck and back, cascading slowly over my swollen breasts and stomach.
Closing my eyes, I trace the soft curve of my breasts, letting my fingernails gently brush across my nipples. I hiss from the contact, wishing I was back in Nocté—wishing it was his hands running across my chest again.
Visions of him flutter behind my eyelids—his sandy brown hair that stood up, messy and tousled thanks to my fingers. His dark mask firmly in place the whole night.
I’d never be able to spot him in public—even though I’ve been looking.
Truthfully, the only thing that would give him away is the small tribal tattoo in the space beneath his belly button and just above his happy trail.
It’s unlikely I’ll ever witness him running around the lakewalk with that part of himself exposed.
I shiver again at the memory and drop my fingertips to circle the bundle of nerves that desperately need release.
The image shifts as I let my fingertips roam my wet skin. Instead of the man from Nocté, it’s Adam’s hands touching.
Pulling.
Playing.
His strong arms, the stability that comes so easily from him.
What would his kisses feel like?
Would he be able to help me forget my experience at Nocté? Or will that mystery man haunt me for the rest of my life?
My lips curve into a smile as I ponder both of their hands on me.
That’s enough to send me tipping over the edge.
My orgasm rips through me and it’s a struggle to stay upright as my legs quake and my gasps echo against the shower walls.
For the longest time, I stand there, letting the aftershocks roll through me.
Last Friday has ruined me for vanilla sex.
But Nocté isn’t the only reason I’m restless for more.
I make a mental note to maybe, possibly, thank Adam for the unintentional inspiration—or bill him for the water usage.
* * *
Morning greets me with the tenderness of a jackhammer, despite falling into sleep’s embrace swiftly after my aquatic bliss.
Not only does my head throb, but every muscle in my body sings a chorus of aches in a key I can’t quite place—but am pretty sure could be classified as torture.
The gym is a no-go today unless Adam’s got a session called ‘Gentle Weeping on a Mat’ hidden in his back pocket.
I’m as likely to lift weights as I am to fly to the moon.
Instead, the highlight of my day is going to be choreographing a one-woman show titled ‘The Perils of Sitting Down’ every time I need the bathroom.
Because, yeah, that’s gonna suck.
I trudge my way to the bathroom, cursing my existence.
Why can’t women be the ones with dicks?
Sore muscles, you say?
Whip it out, and pee standing up.
No problem-o.
Instead, because I’m a woman, I’m in a tragicomedy that deserves a standing ovation—primarily because sitting is not an option.
It’s in the midst of this performance that I hear a key slide in my back door—a sound that’s as out of place in my locked-down fortress of solitude as a snowman in a sauna.
My grandma wouldn’t bother with the key. She’d call and demand I come downstairs to see her.
Cursing life, the universe, and my angry muscles, I pull my sweats up and hobble to the back door with a plunger in hand as my weapon of choice.
The door creaks open, and in waltzes Michael, my fucking ex, as if he’s just popping by for a cup of sugar and not like he’s the human equivalent of expired milk.
“What in the home invasion handbook are you doing here?” I gasp, leaning against the doorframe in a way that does little to support my dignity.
Where the hell is Grandma and her freakishly keen eyesight? She should have warned me here.
“I, uh—still have my key,” Michael says, holding it up light it’s the golden ticket to the kingdom.
With great effort, I push off the wall and snatch it from his hand. “Check-out time was when you decided to play ‘hide the salami’ with Sasha,” I retort, feeling a spark of the old fire that I usually reserve for sassy dialogue in my books.
Michael stands awkwardly in the doorway, the very antithesis of Adam’s confident posture.
Where Adam is all muscular certainty, Michael is leaner, his frame lacking the same intentionality. His hair, once my fingers’ favorite labyrinth, now just seems unkempt. And those dark eyes that used to twinkle for me, now just look ... well, dim.
“I came to apologize,” he says, looking like a dog caught raiding the trash.
Just as I’m about to deliver a biting retort, my ringtone—a maddeningly catchy pop tune that will be stuck in my goddamn head all day—cuts through the tension.
Holding the plunger like a scepter for the domestically challenged, I fish out my phone from my sagging sweats pocket, nearly dropping it in my limberness-lacking stupor. “Hello?”
“Carlie, it’s Adam. You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Everything okay?” His voice is warm, concerned, and it triggers a blush that creeps up my neck as memories of last night’s mental escapades flood back.
“Oh, yeah, just …” I manage, my eyes darting to Michael who seems to shrink under the scrutiny, “dealing with some unexpected housework.”
There’s a soft chuckle from Adam, and I can almost picture his half-smile. “Housework, huh? Well, don’t overdo it. Remember, rest is just as important as the workout.”
I’m smiling now, the image of Adam’s teasing grin making my heart do odd little flips. “Thanks, I’ll ... keep that in mind.”
“Tomorrow?” he prompts and I swear, I heart a hint of hopefulness in his tone.
I nod, smiling to myself. “Tomorrow.”
“See ya, Carlie,” he says, the soft click of the phone echoing in my ear.
Michael’s still hovering, an apology half-formed on his lips.
With my phone clutched at my side, I cut him off with a gesture to the plunger in my other hand. “You see this? It means I’m cleaning house, Michael. Starting with taking out the trash.”
How a plunger has anything to do with trash is beyond me—but it made sense at the time.
Thankfully, though, he gets the hint, finally, mumbling something about leaving as he backs away.
When he’s on the other side, I close the door with a soft click, leaning against it for a moment to collect myself.
I can’t help the giggle that escapes me.
Adam’s casual check-in, the absurdity of the situation with Michael, my insanely sore body—it’s all too much. I’m not sure what’s more laughable—the fact that my ex thought he could waltz back into my life for God knows what reason, or that the man I fantasized about last night is the one who saved me from the whole ordeal.
Shaking my head, I text Adam a quick thank you for his concern and assure him I’ll be back on the mat in no time.
As I hit send, I realize that my interactions with men lately are more fraught with comedy than the romance I write about.
But that’s life, isn’t it?
One big romantic comedy, minus the romance but with an extra helping of comedy. At least, in my world.
I chuck the plunger under the sink—my symbol of victory.
Today, I’ve fended off past mistakes and embraced my present—a present that might just include a too-caring personal trainer and a shower head that’s seen too much.