Page 23 of Icing the Cougar
I laugh. "I have trail mix and coconut water."
He makes a face. "You’re fucking with me."
I shake my head. "It’s good for you. Builds muscle, speeds recovery."
He sighs, dramatically. "You’re determined to make a health nut out of me, aren’t you?"
"It’s my mission," I say. I toss him the snack, and he catches it one-handed, then rips it open with his teeth.
He leans against the wall, eating, and looks at me with something softer than before. "You were really scared last night, weren’t you?"
I freeze. "What do you mean?"
He shrugs. "You looked like you were about to bolt. I thought maybe you would."
I think about lying, about brushing it off. Although he’s watching me, and I can’t pretend.
"I was scared." I shrug. "You scare me, sometimes."
He nods. "I scare myself, sometimes."
We sit in silence for a minute, the only sound the city outside and the whir of the fan. I feel something shift between us, the way it always does when you open up too much and can’t take it back.
"You want to try the next move?" I ask.
He grins, and the moment breaks. "Yeah. Let’s see if you can really teach me something dangerous."
I grab the silks, and we start again.
Time flies by. We swing, we drop, we fail and catch each other, and every time, it’s a little easier. He still curses every time he slips, but now there’s a joy in it.
We end with a final drop, both of us tangled in the fabric, breathless and laughing. I press my forehead to his and pause.
Then I let go.
He catches me, just like I hoped he would.
After we finish, after the silks and the sweating and the fighting to see who could break the other first, the studio feels softer. Lighter. Like something toxic has leaked out and left just the good stuff behind.
Jasper lounges on the old gray couch I keep by the window for reading and existential crises. He’s draped across it like he owns the place, water bottle pressed to his right forearm, eyes half closed. The sunlight angles through the blinds and stripes his chest, his jaw, the little hollow above his sternum that still glistens from the morning’s effort. For a guy who just wrestled with fifty feet of polyester, he looks almost peaceful.
I sit at the other end, towel around my neck, and stare at the city through the window. It’s weird, seeing him out of his element. He isn’t performing or posing or goading. Just being.
"You okay?" I ask, voice softer than I mean it to be.
He shifts the bottle to his knee, glances at me, then away. "Fine. Little sore. Not bad."
I nod. I want to ask about last night, about what we’re doing, but I don’t want to spook him. Or me.
I stand, cross the room to the little shelf, and grab a second water. When I hand it to him, our fingers brush, and it’s like a jolt straight to the chest. He holds on longer than necessary.
"Thanks," he says with a roughness in his voice.
I flop back down, our knees almost touching. I can feel the coiled and waiting energy coming off him.
"So," I start. "Was it everything you dreamed?"
He snorts. "You mean the silks or…?" He gestures vaguely at my body, at the space between us.
