Page 139 of The Yoga Teacher

Not to kiss her. Not to beg.

Her breath hitched as he began to move downward, as his mouth trailed heat across her stomach, and—

Her chest seized. Just for a second.

That image.

His mouth.

On someone else.

Sienna.

She had asked for the details. Demanded them, even. And he had told her—choked out every shameful, dirty truth.

I went down on her.

That had been the worst part. The image she couldn’t unsee. His mouth where it didn’t belong. His reverence wasted on someone else.

And now—he was here. That same mouth.

She almost stopped him.

Almost.

But something unexpected happened as she looked down at him—at his shoulders trembling with effort, at his eyes closed in concentration, at his complete surrender to her pleasure.

This wasn't the same man who had betrayed her. This Daniel was offering himself wholly.

It washed through her like a wave of cool water. The images that had haunted her for months suddenly lost their power. They were just memories now, not weapons. Not wounds.

This act didn't belong to Sienna. It never had. What Daniel had given away was a pale imitation, a hollow echo of what existed between them. This—this connection, this intimacy—couldn't be replicated or replaced. It was uniquely theirs.

This wasn't aboutSienna. This wasn't about what he'd done.

This was aboutnow. Abouther. About the woman she had become—stronger, clearer, capable of taking what she wanted without being diminished by the past.

She curled her fingers in his hair and urged him down.

He slid down between her thighs, the ring around his neck brushing against her skin like a whisper. A reminder of everything they once were, everything they'd lost.

His fingers parted her, and she gasped. Slow, steady strokes of his fingers. His mouth followed, kissing the tender skin around her clit before closing over it gently, carefully.

Giving.

Her body answered immediately—trembling under him, breath catching, fingers curling into the sheets. He moaned against her when she arched, when she cried out his name, when she finally came—hot, fast, sudden.

He didn’t lift his head. He just kept worshiping her with mouth and hands, like she was the only redemption left in the world.

He stayed there, kissing her softly, murmuring into her skin.

“You deserve better than I ever gave you,” he whispered.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t lie beside her like a man content to have givenenough. His hand remained between her legs, gentle now, but intent. His mouth followed again—soft, reverent kisses along her inner thigh, his fingers slick and patient, coaxing rather than commanding.

And before Hannah could catch her breath, she was tipping again—hips lifting, lips parting on a gasp as his thumb circled her clit and two fingers curled just right.

She came a second time. Slower. Deeper. The kind that made her legs tremble and her chest stutter.

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