“Lock it in,” he ordered. And as much as my whole body seemed to burn, and as much as that spot on the inside of my thigh seemed to pulse under his touch, I did. Or tried.
Because Cameron hummed in what I interpreted as disapproval, and in a swift motion, one of his arms was around my waist, and his foot was shoving one of mine out, widening my stance. The motion brought me right against him. His lap. And he grunted, “Hold.”
I held.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, the word falling right between my ear and my neck. “Good job.”
Beautiful. Good job.
My stomach flipped at the praise.
Something right in the middle of my belly swirled. All the blood in my face seemed to swoosh down before bouncing right back up.
What was happening? What was going on? Why were three very ordinary words making me feel this way?
A strange sound left Cameron, and I thought there was a chance I had passed out, right there and then, against Cameron’s lap. Because I didn’t think I could tune in Josie’s voice anymore. Or listen to the baby goats bleating. Or Brandy. Or the sun, the barn, the vastness of the Vasquezes’ farm, or the fact I was surrounded by hills and had left Miami for Green Oak. I was on sensory overload.
All I could feel was Cameron.
And I couldn’t recall a single time, a single instance in my life, when I’d felt like this. Just like when I’d tried to remember the last time I’d cried, I couldn’t pinpoint a specific moment in time when I’d been this overcome by a man’s touch. When I’d been this… hot.
This singlehandedly aroused.
I’d never slept around, but I’d been with two men before David. Three, counting him. I’d thought I’d been touched enough to know what physical touch was.
I was apparently wrong.
Because nothing, not one touch or brush or caress or moment of intimacy, had felt like this. Like Cameron’s hands felt on my body—even over my clothes. Like his chest and thighs pressing behind mine. Like his arms engulfing my sides. And this wasn’t even sexual. This was yoga. With farm animals. The man wasn’t trying to arouse me. He didn’t even like me.
God.
Had I fooled myself into believing that what I’d experienced in the past was the norm? That the dispassion I’d felt when David touched me was okay? Or had I been alone for too long after him? Jesus. Had I neglected my body so much that now it was jumping at the chance to be touched? By a man I could hardly talk to without locking horns?
Cameron’s hands guided me into the next position. I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be, frankly. My head was chaos. Confusion. And when my chest started to feel tight, one thought solidified. I had to be the problem here. Cameron couldn’t be feeling any of this. I was stiff as a poker.
Frigid, boring, and forgettable. Dodged a bullet.
“Take a deep breath, darling,” Cameron said, making me realize I was gasping for air, and it had nothing to do with the workout. “Adalyn,” his voice came again, more firmly. “Focus on your breathing.” His body was still wrapped around me, his warmth somehow feeling like too much. But not enough. What was wrong with me? “In and out, darling.” What had to be his palm fell on my collarbone, firm, heavy, providing a physical tie I could focus on. “That’s it, just like that.”
My rib cage expanded at his words, the air coming in and out more easily.
“Good job,” he murmured, my breathing gradually returning to normal. My mind slowly slipped back into place. “Well done.”
When I started feeling more like myself, I glanced around, searching the group and expecting to find every head turned. Even the goats. But no one was looking. Everyone was focused on their own practice, and Brandy was now resting on my mat. Close to our feet. Cameron’s feet.
“The goat,” I rushed out, feeling the need to issue the warning. He didn’t like them.
Cameron’s body tensed behind mine, just like it had every time one of the furry animals had come close to him. His fingers spread, grazing the base of my neck. And when he spoke, I could hear the strain in his voice. “It’s just a goat.”
I slipped out of his hold, pretending I was frustrated at his blatant denial. I wasn’t. What I was was embarrassed. By Cameron, of all people, witnessing such a moment of weakness on my side. By him having to remind me how to breathe because I’d been too lost in my head over—nothing.
“You’re scared of them,” I told him, whirling around to face him. The green of his eyes was dark, his features hard, and his stance tense. I stepped back. “You’re scared of the goats.”