Page 51 of Unclench Me Softly

I don’t breathe.

He continues, voice smooth, heat curling under the words. “Hard to see. Always listening. Keeps her claws hidden until it’s too late.”

My spine tingles.

My inner thighs pulse.

My entire aura clenches like it just got kissed.

I swallow. “Right. Okay. That’s... fine. We’re not doing labels. You’re all cubs. Let’s crawl.”

And I spin and march into the woods, hair swinging, robe flaring, knees barely steady, trying not to cry, combust, or pounce on a man who just spiritually identified my soul as a sexy predator.

I am not okay.

And I haven’t even blown the start-of-crawling flute yet.

We reach the edge of the forest clearing, and I pause beside a small stack of cushions and an ethically harvested pinecone altar. I close my eyes, center myself, and try to channel the energy of a woman who has not just been labeled a lynx by a man with secrets in his jawline and intentions in his voice.

“Before we begin,” I say, hands lifted like I’m holding invisible sacred bowls of ancestral intention, “Remember that this practice is about surrender. Instinct. Returning to the ground-level version of yourself, where the world isn’t built on language or performance, just breath, movement, and ancient knowing.”

They nod.

I can’t tell if they’re mocking me or if they’ve genuinely crossed into the sacred absurd.

I hold up a carved wooden flute, mostly decorative, and blow a short, breathy tone that echoes weirdly through the trees. A few birds scatter.

“That’s the start tone,” I announce. “Crawling begins now. Stay low. Stay silent. Feel your animal.”

And then they drop. Like full-grown feral men sliding into primal crawl position like this is a test they trained for.

I blink.

Seb is already ten feet ahead of the group, moving like a panther ghost. Asher is breathy but focused, clearly narrating the crawl in his mind like it’s a spiritual TED Talk. Miles moves with precision, back flat, arms angled like he’s tracking a target through a forest of unprocessed emotion. Jax growls, actually growls, and takes off through the trees like he’s part of an emotionally complicated National Geographic special.

And Jonah crawls like he’s done this before.

Not in a weird way, but in a way that feels… dangerous.

Each movement slow and quiet and grounded, like the earth is something he respects too much to rush. His head stays low, but I feel his awareness like heat tracking across my skin. When he moves past me, I swear I can hear him breathe, steady, deep, like he’s syncing with the pulse of the forest.

My thighs clench reflexively.

I follow behind them, adjusting my robe like a spiritual lifeguard, trying not to trip on roots or lust or regret.

We move through the trees. Pine needles crunch. Kneepads squish. The occasional grunt or breathy sigh floats through the branches like it’s part of some sacred erotic audiobook I didn’t mean to download.

And then Jax slows down.

Lets me catch up.

He looks over his shoulder, back arched slightly, eyes bright. “You sure we’re not just reenacting some weird fantasy you had in your twenties?” he murmurs.

I glare at him. “If I wanted that fantasy, you’d all be wearing antlers and calling me Mother Moon.”

He laughs, low, warm, teasing. “Damn. Maybe for the next retreat.”

I scowl, trip slightly, and keep crawling. Do not engage the horny wolverine. Do not.

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