Chapter 8: Breeding the Yoga Instructor
The scent of coffee and sex hung thick in Dede’s bedroom. David lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other trapped beneath the warm weight of her. The record player had long since stopped, leaving a silent, accusatory hum in the air. He could feel the damp patch on the sheets where they’d both spilled, a cooling reminder of what he’d just done.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Dede murmured, tracing a nail down the center of his chest. Her touch was proprietary.
“I need to go. Lexi—” he started, the name like a splash of cold water.
“Lexi is a big girl. She’s probably still asleep.” Dede propped herself up on an elbow, her curls a tangled mess against the pillow. The sheet slipped, revealing the ripe curve of her breast. “Stay. Just for a bit. I’ll make you a proper breakfast.”
He shouldn’t. Every sane cell screamed it. But his body, satiated and heavy, vetoed the motion. The emptiness of his own house, the blank page waiting, the memory of Lexi’s withdrawn face—it all felt like a vacuum he couldn’t face. Here, there was warmth. Here, there was no expectation beyond the physical. Here, he was not a failed writer or a confused father. He was just a man.
“Coffee first,” he grunted, sitting up. The movement made the room spin slightly. Whiskey and exhaustion.
While she padded, naked and unselfconscious, to the kitchen, David used her shower. The water was scalding. He tried to wash her smell from his skin, but it was baked into his pores—lavender and sweat and her. He leaned his forehead against the tile, letting the steam envelop him. His reflection in the fogged mirror was a stranger: older, harder, with a possessive bite mark on his shoulder he didn’t remember receiving.
When he emerged in his trousers, his hair damp, Dede was at the stove. She’d slipped into a silk robe that did nothing to conceal her body. The sight of her, flipping pancakes with domestic ease, sent a confusing jolt through him. It was a parody of intimacy, one he hadn’t asked for but was somehow sliding into.
He sat at her small table, accepting a mug of black coffee. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” she said simply, setting a plate before him. “I like taking care of you.”
He ate in silence. The food was good. He was starving. He hadn’t realized. She watched him, a small smile playing on her lips as she nursed her own coffee.
“Your book,” she said finally. “The one that’s giving you grief. What’s it about?”
He nearly choked. No one asked about the work. Lexi had long ago lost interest. His agent had stopped calling. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not going anywhere.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He looked at her. Her expression was open, genuinely curious. It was a trap, he knew. A way in. But the urge to talk about it, to voice the silent, screaming knot in his chest, was overwhelming. He found himself speaking in short, gruff sentences about a protagonist adrift, about moral ambiguity, about the erosion of truth. He surprised himself with his own coherence.
She listened, really listened, her chin resting on her hand. When he finished, she didn’t offer platitudes. She said, “He sounds tired.And angry. He should fuck someone. Or get into a fight. Burn something down.”
A startled laugh barked out of him. It felt foreign. “Is that your literary analysis?”
“It’s life analysis,” she said, her eyes glinting. “You can’t think your way out of a feeling. You have to act your way out. Or,” she added, getting up and coming to stand behind his chair, her hands sliding over his shoulders, “you have to feel something else so strongly it blots the first thing out.”
Her hands kneaded the tense muscles of his shoulders. He let his head fall forward. Her touch was expert. It unspooled him. The robe’s belt came loose under her fingers, and the silk parted. He felt her bare breasts press against his back, her nipples hard points against his skin. One hand slid down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach, and into the waistband of his trousers.
“Dede—” His protest was a weak formality.
“Shhh,” she whispered into his ear, her teeth grazing the lobe. Her fingers found him, already stirring to life under her touch. “You’re not done here yet.”
The halls of McKinley High were a river of voices, locker slams, and the greasy scent of cafeteria food. Lexi drifted through it, a ghost. She saw him immediately, of course. Ace was at his locker, head down, shoving books into a battered backpack. He wore a dark grey hoodie, the hood up, casting his face in shadow. He moved with a tense, coiled efficiency, a predator in a sea of oblivious prey.
Her heart did its stupid, traitorous leap. She forced her eyes forward, aiming for her own locker. Bree chattered beside her about a math test, but the words were just noise.
“Hey, Lexi! Bree!”
Rylee appeared, falling into step with them, his smile easy. He’d been doing that a lot lately. His eyes, however, stayed fixed on Bree.“You guys grabbing lunch? I’m starved.”
“Sure,” Bree said, a faint blush on her cheeks.
As they passed Ace’s locker, Rylee gave a short nod. “Ace.”
Ace glanced up. His eyes, dark and hollow, flickered over the trio. They lingered on Lexi for a fractured second—a look that felt like a physical touch, hot and cold all at once—before cutting away. He nodded back, a barely perceptible jerk of his chin, then slammed his locker shut and walked off in the opposite direction, his shoulders hunched against the world.
The dismissal was a physical slap. Lexi’s face burned.
“He’s in a mood,” Rylee said quietly, watching Ace disappear around a corner. “Things are… rough at home. He’s gotta work after school. Always does.”
“What’s going on?” Bree asked, concerned.
Rylee shook his head. “Not my story to tell. Just… he’s carrying a lot.” He turned his focus back to Bree, deliberately bright. “So, pizza? My treat.”
In the cafeteria, Rylee pulled out a chair for Bree. Lexi sat across from them, picking at a limp salad. She watched as Rylee made Bree laugh, how he stole a fry from her tray and she swatted his hand without real anger. It was easy.Normal. A ritual she couldn’t comprehend.
“You’re quiet,” Bree said, nudging her foot.
“Just thinking,” Lexi mumbled.
“About a certain brooding mechanic?” Rylee asked, his tone careful, not unkind.
Lexi shrugged. “He made it clear he doesn’t want to be thought about.”
“It’s not about want,” Rylee said, serious for a moment. “It’s about what he thinks he deserves. And trust me, he thinks he deserves crap.” He took a bite of pizza. “Give him space. But maybe… don’t give up entirely.He notices you. More than he lets on.”
The comment should have given her hope. Instead, it felt like a weight. She didn’t want to be a project, a charity case for a damaged boy. She was tired of tiptoeing around other people’s grenades. The frustration from last night returned, cold and sharp.
After school, she walked home alone. The Thompson house loomed, perfectly landscaped and utterly silent. Her father’s car was in the driveway, but the office blinds were drawn. She went straight to her room, changed into running gear, and pounded the pavement for three miles until her lungs burned and her thoughts were a blissful, agonized blank.
Back in Dede’s bedroom, the lazy morning had dissolved into something darker, needier.
David had meant to leave. He really had. But her hands on him, her mouth, the crude, insightful thing she’d said about his book—it had pulled him under. Now, they were tangled in her silk sheets again, the late afternoon sun painting stripes across their bodies.
He was above her, his weight pinning her to the mattress. Her legs were hooked over his shoulders, her hips angled up, granting him deep, devastating access. He moved inside her with a slow, possessive rhythm, each stroke a deliberate claiming. She was so wet, so tight, her body clutching him like a fist.
“Look at me,” he growled, his voice raw.
Her eyes, hazy with pleasure, locked on his. There was no pretense in them now, just raw, wanting hunger.
“This is mine,” he said, driving into her, emphasizing each word with a thrust.“This.Pussy. Mine.”
“Yes,” she gasped, her head thrashing back on the pillow. “Yours, David. All yours.”
The dominant declaration ignited something feral in her. Her nails raked down his back, scoring the skin. He hissed, the pain a bright, sharp counterpoint to the pleasure. It fueled him. His pace quickened, losing its measured control. The bed began to thump rhythmically against the wall.
“Are you on the pill?” he grunted, the thought surfacing from some dim, responsible corner of his mind. He was too far gone to stop, but he had to ask.
“Yes,” she breathed, the lie smooth and immediate. Her eyes were wide, guileless. “I’m safe. Don’t stop. Please.”
It was the permission he needed. The last thread of restraint snapped. He plunged into her, hard and deep, his rhythm becoming frantic, primal. The sound of their bodies meeting was obscene, a wet, rhythmic slap that filled the scented room. He could feel the pressure building, a tsunami in his gut.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his muscles trembling with the effort to hold back.
“Do it,” she begged, her voice breaking. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper. “Fill me up, Daddy. I want it all. Give it to me.”
The filthy, submissive plea detonated his last reserve. With a ragged roar, he buried himself to the hilt and let go. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and endless, and he poured himself into her in hot, pulsing jets. He collapsed on top of her, spent, his breath sawing in his ear. He felt her own climax fluttering around him, milking him dry.
For a long time, they lay there, stuck together with sweat and come. His mind was a numb, buzzing void. The emptiness was gone, replaced by a hollow, physical satiation.
Eventually, he rolled off her. He stared at the ceiling, at the delicate glass pendant light. The shame was there, waiting, but it felt distant, muffled by endorphins.
Dede shifted beside him. She rose from the bed, a vision of tousled, satisfied womanhood. She walked to her dresser, her gait slightly unsteady. She opened a small, lacquered box and took out a packet of pills. She shook one into her palm, then turned, meeting his eyes as she dry-swallowed it.
A lie solidified into truth for him. He felt a ridiculous, overwhelming rush of relief.
“See?” she said softly, a gentle smile on her lips. “All taken care of.”
She came back to bed, curling into his side, her hand spread possessively over his heart. “Stay a little longer. Just until it gets dark.”
Outside, the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in tones of violet and gold. In the quiet house next door, Lexi sat on her bedroom floor, her back against the bed, listening to the silence. She pulled out her phone.
She pulled out her phone. The screen glowed in her dim room, a portal to a world that felt equally unreal. A new message from Bree blinked.
Lisa Jackson’s. Her parents are gone for the weekend.Whole thing. You HAVE to come.
Lexi typed a quick no thanks and hit send.
Her phone buzzed instantly.Come ON. It’ll be fun. We need fun. Rylee’s driving. He’ll pick us up.
I’m not in the mood, Lexi replied.Please. For me? It’s just us. A bunch of people.Dance.Forget. Ace won’t be there. Rylee already asked.
That last sentence did it. The final excuse vaporized. A place where he wouldn’t be, where she wouldn’t have to scan every hallway or feel that hot-cold jolt of disappointment. A place to be someone else, just for a night.Fine. What time?
Shower.Look cute.
The hot water did nothing to scour the restless feeling from her skin. She stood before her closet, finally selecting a simple black dress that skimmed her thighs and a pair of heels that made her legs look endless. She applied a little mascara, some lip gloss. The reflection was unfamiliar, older, a girl pretending at being a woman who knew what she wanted.
Rylee’s car smelled of cheap air freshener and weed. Bree was in the passenger seat, already buzzing with pre-game energy. “You look amazing!” she squealed, handing Lexi a spiked seltzer from a six-pack at her feet.
“Go easy on her, Bree,” Rylee said, eyes on the road, but he was smiling.
The Jackson house was a pulsating heart of bass and blurred light. Bodies packed the downstairs, a sweating, shouting organism. The air was thick with beer and perfume and vapor. Lexi took the seltzer Bree offered, then another. The alcohol was a fuzzy blanket, muting the sharp edges of her thoughts.
She followed Bree into the throng of the living room. Music swallowed them. Bree grabbed her hands, spinning her. They danced, laughing, a bubble of two in the chaos. A boy from Riverdale, someone Bree knew vaguely, slid into their circle. He was all teeth and floppy hair, his hands landing on Lexi’s hips as they moved.
The touch was foreign, but not unpleasant. It was just contact.Momentum. She let the music and the vodka-cranberry someone handed her carry her. She stopped thinking. She just moved, her body loosening, her head tilting back. The boy’s hands tightened, pulling her closer, their bodies grinding to the beat.
Rylee watched from the kitchen doorway, his smile fading. He saw the glaze in Lexi’s eyes, the unsteady sway as she laughed. He saw the Riverdale kid’s hand drift lower on her back. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he stepped onto the darkened back porch.
The call rang four times before it was answered with a grunt. “What.”
“Ace. It’s Rylee. You at the shop?”
“Yeah. Why.” Ace’s voice was flat, drained.
“You need to get to Lisa Jackson’s.On Elm.”
Silence. Then, colder: “Why.”
“Lexi’s here. She’s shit-faced, man. And some preppy dickhead from Riverdale is about half a second from claiming his turf. I can’t watch her and Bree both.”
A string of curses, violent and low, hissed through the phone. The line went dead.
Ace arrived twenty minutes later, a storm moving through the crowd. He wore grease-stained jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his knuckles scraped raw. His eyes scanned the room with a predatory efficiency. He found her quickly.
She was in the center of it all, a splash of black in the swirling colors. Her head was thrown back, her hair stuck to her damp neck. The Riverdale kid was behind her, his front to her back, his hands on her hips, moving with her in a slow, suggestive rhythm. A red-hot wire snapped behind Ace’s ribs.
He crossed the room in six strides. He didn’t speak. He grabbed the kid by the shoulder and shoved him back so hard he stumbled into a group, spilling drinks. Before Lexi could even register what was happening, Ace’s hand clamped around her wrist, his grip like iron.
“Hey!” she slurred, trying to pull away. “Ace? What—”
“Shut up,” he snarled, his voice barely audible over the music but vibrating with a fury that chilled her. He dragged her, stumbling in her heels, away from the living room, down a hall lined with closed doors. He tried a knob.Locked. The next one opened.
He pulled her into a dark, cool room—a home office—and kicked the door shut. The tumult of the party became a muffled throb.
“What is your problem?” she shouted, yanking her arm free. The room spun slightly. “You can’t just—!”
He backed her against the closed door, his body caging hers. The smell of him—motor oil, cold night air, and pure, unadulterated anger—filled her senses. His eyes were black holes in the dim light filtering through the blinds.
“My problem?” he seethed, his face inches from hers. “You, grinding on some fucking trust fund baby like a common slut. That’s my problem.”
The word was a slap. “I can dance with whoever I want!” she fired back, the alcohol fueling her own anger. “You don’t own me! You made that perfectly clear!”
Something in his expression broke. The controlled fury shattered into something wilder, more desperate. “You have no idea,” he breathed, the words ragged. “No fucking idea what you do to me.”
He crashed his mouth onto hers.
It wasn’t a kiss.It was a collision. It was possession and punishment and a yearning so deep it terrified him. His lips were hard, demanding. Lexi gasped against his mouth, her hands coming up to push at his chest, but the feel of him, the taste of him—whiskey and wrath—unraveled her. A moan trapped itself in her throat. Her resistance melted, her body arching into his as if pulled by a wire. She kissed him back, her fingers twisting into his shirt, pulling him closer.
He growled, the sound vibrating into her mouth. His hands dropped from the door, roaming her body with a rough hunger. One large palm cupped her ass, squeezing through the thin fabric of her dress, lifting her against him. The hard ridge of his erection pressed into her stomach. His other hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.
“Ace,” she panted when he broke for air, her mind swimming, her body a live wire of sensation.
“You’re mine,” he muttered against her throat, biting the sensitive skin there, not hard enough to break it, but enough to brand her. “You’ve always been mine. You just didn’t know it.”
His hand slid from her ass, up her thigh, pushing the hem of her dress higher. His calloused fingers found the lace edge of her underwear. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He hooked a finger under the fabric and pulled it aside.
The cool air of the room hit her exposed flesh. She jolted. “Ace, wait—”
He ignored her, his mouth descending to capture her nipple through the dress, sucking hard, wetting the fabric. The dual sensation—his hot mouth, his fingers exploring her—sent a bolt of pure, undiluted lust straight to her core. She whimpered, her head falling back against the door.
“Please,” she breathed, but she didn’t know what she was begging for.
He slid a finger through her folds. She was soaked. The evidence of her desire seemed to enrage him further. “So wet for me,” he rasped, his voice thick with a cruel triumph. “And you let him touch you.”
“I didn’t—“
He pushed a thick finger inside her.
Lexi cried out. It was a shock—a blinding, stretching, overwhelming intrusion. She was impossibly tight, a virgin’s unbearable tension. It burned. “Stop,” she gasped, her hands pushing at his shoulders now in earnest. “Ace, stop, it hurts—”
He was beyond listening. The feel of her, so tight and hot and wet, was a frenzy. He added a second finger, the stretch brutal. She gasped, a sharp sound of pain. He drove his fingers deeper, fucking her with them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, relentless circles. His mouth was still on her breast, biting and sucking through the fabric.
“See?” he groaned into her skin, his fingers pumping.“This is mine. This tight little cunt is mine. You gonna come for me?Huh? Come on my fingers.”
The pleasure was there, a twisted thread woven through the pain and the shock, but it was being smothered. She was pinned, used, her body betraying her with its traitorous wetness while her mind screamed. A sob ripped from her chest, choked and broken.
It was the sound, that raw, shattered sob, that cut through the red haze in his mind.
He froze.
His mouth stilled on her breast. His fingers, buried deep inside her, stopped their ruthless rhythm. He lifted his head slowly, as if waking from a nightmare.
In the slatted light, he saw her face. Tears tracked through her mascara. Her lips were swollen from his kiss, trembling. Her eyes were wide, not with passion, but with a stunned, fearful hurt.
He looked down at his hand, still shoved up her dress, his fingers inside her body. He yanked them out as if burned, stumbling back from her.
The reality of what he’d done, what he’d almost done, crashed over him like icy water. He saw the ripped lace of her underwear, the way her dress was hiked to her hips, the terror in her eyes. He looked at his own hand, glistening with her.
“Oh, god.” The words were a breath, a prayer of horror. “Lexi. Oh, fuck. Oh, Jesus.”
He turned away from her, bending over, gripping his knees. His entire body shook. The violence of his self-disgust was a physical sickness. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t— I lost— I’m…”
Lexi slid down the length of the door, her legs giving out. She pulled her dress down, a frail, instinctive gesture of modesty. The burning ache between her legs was a brand. She hugged her knees to her chest, the sobs coming quietly now, shaking her frame.
Ace heard them. Each one was a nail in his coffin. He finally turned, his face ashen. He reached a trembling hand toward her, then let it drop, knowing he’d forfeited any right to touch her.
“Lexi,” he whispered, his voice shattered. “I’m a monster. I’m… I’m so sorry.”
He took another step back, colliding with the desk. The sound was like a gunshot in the terrible silence of the room. He looked at her, crumpled on the floor, then at the door. The urge to run, to flee from the thing he had become, was a tidal force.
He fled.
The door opened and shut, and he was gone, leaving her alone in the dark with the muffled beat of the party and the brutal, echoing memory of his fingers inside her.