Page 63 of Unclench Me Softly

I lift my hand. Touch skin. There it is. A bite mark.

I might die.

“Good morning,” Jonah murmurs. His voice is low. Amused.

I make a noise like a choking bird and flee to the so-called Root Chakra Lounge™, which is currently just a large mat, some velvet pillows, and a playlist I can only describe as “sexually tense woodwind instrumentals.”

I have ten minutes to invent a sacred stillness ritual that doesn’t involve anyone touching, talking, or asking follow-up questions.

And maybe twenty to figure out if Miles is going to tell everyone I spiritually climaxed on his breath the night before.

I kneel in the center of the Root Chakra Lounge™, surrounded by strategically fluffed pillows, vaguely suggestive red throws, and the faint scent of sandalwood anxiety.

I take a deep breath, trying to remember who I was before last night, before Jax pressed me against the door and realigned every spiritual vertebrae in my body. I need to be Bliss the leader. Bliss the guide. Not Bliss the woman who cried out “goddess bless” while riding a man who howled.

The dome flap rustles.

Asher enters first, barefoot, with a giant mug and the shining face of someone ready for growth. He smiles at me like I’m a morning star, and I immediately feel like a fraud.

Miles arrives next, crisp as ever, holding a sleek thermos and looking far too composed for a man who whispered filth into my ear last night like a velvet threat. He meets my gaze briefly, just enough to wreck me, then settles onto a cushion and closes his eyes like this is a board meeting for the soul.

Seb follows, slow and silent, eyes already half-lidded, a walking monolith of unresolved tension. He chooses the cushion closest to the exit. His way of keeping one toe in the forest.

Jonah walks in next, offers a nod, and a brief flicker of gaze that lingers just a hair too long on my mouth. He sits like a wolf waiting for orders he may or may not follow.

Jax strolls in like the dome belongs to him. Hair tousled, shirt rumpled, the faintest scratch on his jaw that might be from me. His gaze sweeps over me, and settles like heat on my throat. His mouth quirks, barely. Just enough to say I remember how you sounded without a word.

I don’t flinch. But I do, internally, die a little.

“All right,” I say, voice calm, steady, the exact tone of a woman whose thighs are not clenching reflexively. “We begin our journey into Sacred Stillness now. This is a practice of inner grounding. A return to root-level awareness. A moment of embodied silence.”

They stare at me, all five of them, sitting in a loose circle on cushions that feel far too intimate for a group I’ve either kissed, fantasized about, or full-on had a spiritual orgasm with.

I close my eyes. Breathe in. “This is not about forcing silence. It’s about inviting it. We’ll begin with a root-body scan, anchoring breath into the pelvis, the hips, the base of the spine.”

Someone shifts. Probably Asher. He’s a fidgeter.

“We’re going to breathe into our sits bones,” I continue, “Into our connection with the floor, with the earth, with the core of our primal self.”

There’s a long pause. I open one eye.

Miles is still. Eyes shut. Controlled.

Asher is mouthing the words “sits bones” like he’s unsure if they’re medical or mystical.

Seb is a statue. A coiled one.

Jonah is watching me through half-lowered lashes.

And Jax is not closing his eyes. He’s watching me. The whole time. His hand on his knee. His thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle on the fabric of his pants. His head tilted slightly like he’s listening, sure, but also like he’s thinking of anything but stillness.

I close my eyes again and take a deep breath. “Inhale grounding. Exhale distraction. Inhale truth. Exhale expectation.” My voice stays steady, even as my skin flushes with the weight of knowing exactly how Jax looks when he’s between my legs. “Inhale safety. Exhale tension.”

I try not to think about how there’s a literal bite mark on my neck right now. Or how Jonah probably noticed it. Or how Miles definitely knows. “Allow the body to be heavy. Allow the spirit to settle. Let the root lead.”

I let the silence stretch, holding it like breath, like ritual, like a spell I didn’t entirely mean to cast.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Thirty.

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