Page 4 of Unclench Me Softly

“And finally, we’ll, uh… receive the softness. Offer the seed. Or something. That sounds vaguely sexual, but I think I can make it sound sacred with the right lighting.”

I squint at myself in the mirror. My dress is wrinkled, there’s paint on my elbow, and I look like someone who recently fought a printer and lost.

“Do I need a sixth pillar?” I mumble. “Five feels unbalanced. Six is a whole number. Six is even. Six is symmetrical. Should I?”

A sudden, deafening roar cuts through the stillness like a hell beast tearing through a yoga class.

I freeze.

That is not a lawnmower.

That is not a sacred drum.

That is not anything that should be happening on this supposedly tranquil property.

The sound grows louder, closer, meaner. A motorcycle. Big. Loud. Aggressive.

“No,” I whisper, spinning toward the window. “No, no, no, who shows up early to a healing retreat? Only people who want refunds. Or blood.”

The bike revs again, echoing off the trees like a spiritual warning shot.

I grit my teeth, grab a half-burned incense stick from the desk like it’s a weapon, and march toward the door.

“So help me, if this is one of those men trying to assert their divine masculine by revving their engine into my third eye, I’m going to lose my entire alignment.”

I throw open the door, walk outside, and stare straight into the oncoming chaos.

Bliss-ism #27/g:

Masculine energy is like chili oil. A little can be hot. Too much will ruin the soup.

Chapter Two:

Sex on Wheels, Probably a Scorpio

The man who swings off the motorcycle looks like he could punch the moon out of the sky and then write a breakup song about it.

He’s tall, all lean muscle and swagger and black leather, with tattoos climbing up his forearms like smoke. And his jawline?

Illegal. Should be licensed as a weapon. Possibly already is.

For a split second, just one, I forget that he’s currently poisoning the sacred energy of my forest sanctuary with pure gasoline and testosterone. I forget my name. I forget the Five Pillars. I may even forget gravity.

My uterus does a little pirouette. My third eye, however, squints suspiciously.

Because this man? This man smells like trouble. Like anger and hot asphalt and emotional repression.

Also, probably cologne called something like “WOLF BLOOD 2: FERAL BY CHOICE.”

He cuts the engine, kicks the stand down like he’s mad at the ground, and slowly pulls off his helmet. His hair is messy in a way that’s either accidental or costs $300 at a salon in LA.

When his eyes meet mine, dark, sharp, amused in a way that makes my inner goddess immediately try to pack a go-bag, I feel my chakras attempt to hide behind one another.

“Hi,” he says, voice low, rough, and one hundred percent illegal in at least three spiritual communities.

I blink. “You’re early.”

He looks around like he’s already unimpressed. “You’re Bliss?”

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