Page 13 of Reptile Dysfunction
Her smile is pure victory. “Don’t be late. And wear something… stretchy.”
She walks away, and I swear her hips sway more than strictly necessary. My snakes, damn them, are drawn to her every movement.
“Not a word,” I warn the Trio of Turmoil, who are practically vibrating with glee. “Not. One. Word.”
They manage to stay quiet for almost thirty seconds.
“I have a spare mat you can borrow,” Iris offers helpfully. “It’s purple. Matches your snakes when they blush.”
“I hate all of you.”
But at 4:30 sharp, I’m walking into the Pilates studio wearing black athletic shorts and a fitted tank top that Sebastian got me for Christmas. My snakes are already reaching toward where Sloane stands, adjusting someone’s form, her hands gentle but firm as she guides their position.
“You came.” She sounds pleased, which makes my snakes—and my cock—sit up and take notice. “Set up in the back. You’ll need space.”
The implication that I’m too big for a standard mat space isn’t lost on me, but there’s no judgment in her tone. Just practicality.
For the first ten minutes, I’m almost convinced this won’t be so bad. The breathing exercises are basic, and the stretches aremanageable. Then she starts incorporating terms like “Teaser” and “Boomerang,” and suddenly my body is being asked to move in ways it wasn’t designed for.
“Tuck your pelvis,” Sloane instructs, and suddenly she’s beside me, one hand on my lower back. “Engage your core.”
Every snake on my head freezes. Her touch is professional, but my body didn’t get the memo.
“Like this?” I manage, though my voice comes out rough as gravel.
“Almost.” She applies gentle pressure, and my spine automatically adjusts. “There. Feel the difference?”
What I feel is her body heat and the rustle of her breath and the way my snakes are absolutely useless at hiding their reaction to her proximity.
“Got it,” I say curtly, hoping she’ll move on to another student.
She does, but not before I catch the slight quirk of her lips that suggests she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
The rest of the class is an exercise in restraint. Every time she demonstrates a move, I’m treated to the sight of her strong, flexible body flowing through positions that my imagination immediately corrupts. By the time we reach the final stretch, I’m both physically and mentally exhausted.
“Not bad for a first-timer,” she says as other students file out. “Your core strength is impressive.”
“Swimming,” I explain, rolling up the borrowed mat. “Helps with everything except, apparently, whatever torture you call this.”
“Pilates.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “I got curious after last night. Did a little digging. Turns out Gorgon powers aren’t as automatic as you pretend they are.”
My snakes go still. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you can choose who feels it and who doesn’t. Which suggests that either your power doesn’t work on me…”
“Or?”
Her eyes meet mine, challenging. “Or you’re choosing not to use it.”
The studio suddenly feels very small, and my gym shorts very thin.
“Careful, Whitaker,” I warn, but my snakes are swaying toward her like she’s playing snake charmer music only they can hear. “You’re pushing dangerous boundaries.”
“Good thing I have an enforcer to keep me in line.” She shoulders her gym bag. “See you at seven?”
The question catches me off guard. “We didn’t schedule another interview.”
“No,” she agrees with a smile that makes my snakes absolutely giddy. “We didn’t.”
