Page 137 of The Yoga Teacher

She hadn't expected so visceral a reaction from him. Not this quickly, not this intensely. There was something raw in his need that made her feel powerful.

He kept whispering her name, like each syllable was a prayer he didn’t deserve to speak.

He was grinding against, small, aborted movements that he kept stopping. Like he didn’t trust himself. Like he knew if he let go, he wouldn’t last.

Hannah reached for him, curling her hand around the back of his neck, she could feel a delicate chain there. She pulled his mouth back to hers and he groaned against her mouth.

He kissed her like he was drowning in it—like the world outside this bed didn’t exist.

She felt the shift in his hips. The twitch. The restraint.

He kept angling away, adjusting so his cock wasn’t pressed against her leg.

"Daniel,” she whispered, breath catching. “Stop holding back.”

He froze.

“Just fuck me.”

A moan broke from his chest—shaky, guttural. “God, Hannah…”

He was already reaching, fumbling for the waistband of her leggings, pulling them down with a sort of desperate care. Her underwear followed. He kissed her hip, her stomach, like he couldn’t not.

Then his voice—wrecked and soft against her skin.

“Anything,” he whispered. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything for you.”

She pulled him down again, their mouths crashing together.

When he finally pushed inside her, it was almost too much—too much history packed into one breathless slide.

Daniel looked at her like she was something holy—something he didn’t dare want but couldn’t stop needing.

He barely made it halfway before he gasped, full-body tension locking his muscles tight.

And then—

She felt every muscle in his body go rigid, saw the flash of panic cross his face, chased by exquisite pleasure. Time suspended itself in that fraction of a second before—

“Shit—fuck—” he choked, and she felt it. The stuttering thrust. The stillness. The way he buried his face in her neck like he wanted to disappear.

“I’m sorry. Hannah, I—I didn’t mean—”

She blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.

It wasn’t what she expected. Not at all.

There was a strange, suspended silence. She could hear his ragged breathing, feel the heat radiating from his skin. His weight above her suddenly felt different—heavier with shame than with desire.

His body was still trembling with aftershocks. She could still feel the press of him inside her, the heat.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he said again, stricken. “You told me what you wanted and I—Jesus, I didn’t even make it five seconds—”

She didn’t want to feel this.

Didn’t want to feel her arms tightening around him. Didn’t want to feel the tenderness rising up in her chest like a goddamn betrayal.

He was a grown man collapsing into her like a boy who didn’t know what to do with his own longing. Humiliated. Broken open. Still inside her.

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