So Rare (Boys of South Chapel #3)

31. Sione

Chapter 31

Sione

THEN: Fall, Year Two Luteal Phase

“Breathe, Mahina. Lean into it and open for me.”

Hunter releases a shaky exhale, her thighs quivering, and gives me another inch.

As she straddles the yoga mat we’re sharing, sweat drips from her nape and along the curve of her spine. The single bead of moisture disappears beneath her sports bra before it has a chance to make it to where my tatted hand is splayed wide on her back.

I’m mesmerized by that single droplet of her essence.

I’m jealous of the fabric that has the honor of absorbing it.

I yearn to peel her out of her clothes and lick it from her salty skin.

Months and months have passed.

With each cycle of the moon, my body awakens further.

What started as companionship blossomed into friendship.

But friendship didn’t keep.

It wasn’t enough. I want to possess her. Consume her. Claim her as my one and only.

My soul has made its choice. My mind, heart, subtle body, and, most recently and surprisingly, my physical container, have all followed suit.

The cordiality and civility I felt toward her has been replaced with yearning and desire.

I feel reborn.

I feel unhinged .

No longer can I linger in her presence without battling the unrelenting desire to have her. To hold her. To take her and keep her and discover where this unprecedented sexual attraction could take us.

I want to tell her. I need to tell her. It would be a disservice to the heart, and an actual crime to my soul, to keep my feelings to myself any longer.

But will it be enough? Can I be enough?

After more than a year of friendship, how do I explain the shift I’m still coming to terms with myself?

My attraction to her grew slowly. It took root and it bloomed. It gathered in my core, drop by drop, until my desire and desperation became parts of who I am. Now, I can’t imagine not feeling like this.

“Si. It hurts,” she whimpers, jettisoning me back to this moment.

This moment, where it’s just the two of us, working through a private flow in the heated yoga studio.

This moment, where the warmth and sweat and energy of the room have nothing on the insatiable flames licking up my spine.

“I know, Mahina. I know. You’re doing so well.”

Shifting, I reposition myself directly behind her and place both palms on the small of her back.

Hunter swears this helps when she’s cramping—the deep stretching and the hot yoga. Sure, she could do it on her own, but I tell myself she needs the counterpressure to really open up and relieve the worst of her discomfort.

She’s been open to trying so many new things over the last year in an effort to counteract the symptoms of PMDD. My curious, inquisitive, soulful girl.

She still takes her meds and meets with her therapist regularly, but she’s added yoga to the regimen. She meditates. She drinks raspberry leaf tea the week leading up to her menses. She works hard to take care of herself from the inside out. To alleviate the symptoms she can, to honor the situation she’s in, and to accept that she’s doing her best.

I’m so proud of her.

“Lift up so I can move the roller,” I encourage.

Without hesitation, she pushes into downward dog.

It takes all my strength not to give in to the temptation to stare at her backside, which is now perfectly positioned in my line of sight.

Quickly, I reposition the foam roller she was pressing her pelvis into, turning it parallel with the yoga mat, hopeful that if she can stretch out her groin muscles, she’ll find another pocket of relief.

Holding it steady with one hand, I swipe at the strands of sweat-drenched hair that have escaped the elastic on top of my head.

“Lower,” I murmur, expecting her to flow through chaturanga like usual.

Instead, something wholly unexpected happens. She slips, likely physically spent and mentally foggy, and plops onto the foam roller with an oof .

My natural instincts take over, and I place one hand on her hip to steady her while I use the other to hold the foam roller in place.

“Hunter.”

Her reply is an airy, wanton moan that echoes off the walls of the studio.

Despite the temperature of the room, the true heat of the moment radiates through me, sending a surge of unprecedented desire straight to my core.

Still straddling the roller, which is positioned perfectly between her thighs, she rolls her hips forward and whimpers.

My heart takes off at a sprint. Is she…? Heavens. She is. She’s deriving pleasure from the sensation of the foam roller pressing up into her core.

I want her to feel good. But I don’t know that I can remain calm if she moans like that again.

“Hunter,” I plead, her name as much of a warning as it is a prayer.

She lifts her head, her chest heaving, wisps of sweat-slicked blond hair clinging to her forehead.

We lock eyes in the floor to length mirror in front of us.

A new kind of heat consumes me.

It’s desire. It’s attraction. It’s lust and want and need in a way I’ve never experienced with another human.

The energy of a supernova bursting into existence erupts between us. Around us. Because of us.

Maintaining eye contact, she grinds against the foam roller.

“It feels so good.” She whimpers. Hands planted on the mat, she spreads her thighs even wider.

“Then do it again, Mahina. Chase that feeling. Do what feels good.”

My words are as much an encouragement for her as they are permission for me.

Chase the feeling, follow the light.

Do what feels good, lean into the newly illuminated path. The path that feels so rare, but also so right.

My inner warrior is awake, standing at attention, yearning to see this through.

Every atom that makes up my physical body vibrates with virility.

Without looking away from her reflection, I rise to my knees and shift, angling my pelvis to show her the reciprocated arousal I’m experiencing.

“Look at what you do to me, Mahina. Do you see how I react? How I grow just for you?” I grit out, smoothing one hand along the outside of my yoga shorts, over the erect, throbbing proof of my attraction.

A small gasp catches in her throat, and her pupils blow wide as she watches me touch myself—confidently and proudly—showing off just for her. Her eyes leave mine, drifting and searching. Taking in my physical state as I slowly stroke myself again.

For the first time in this lifetime, I wish the hand touching me belonged to someone else.

Her breaths quicken and her focus remains locked on me as I touch myself through my shorts. This moment is more erotic and satisfying than any solo session.

“Can I?” she asks on a whisper.

Can she. Can she? I honestly do not know.

I haven’t been sexually active with a partner for years. I’ve never derived pleasure from a sexual exchange with another person.

But this is different. She is her, and she is it for me.

Despite the intensity of my emotions and how much I want to feel her skin against mine, insecurity slams into me. My chest tightens with the fear of underperforming and disappointing her. I want to make her feel good, but I must be mindful of my subtle body and her delicate disposition. She’s physically hurting. Emotionally vulnerable.

“Si…”

Breath held, I home in on her reflection.

“I just meant, can I… get myself off. In your presence. Right now. Like this?” She grinds her core against the foam roller once more, exhaling sharply.

A bolt of desire travels up my spine. In all my conscious days, I’ve never been more jealous of an inanimate object.

“I would never do this in front of you without your consent,” she explains, her eyes soft, her concern palpable.

My brilliant, beautiful girl. She knows me so well. She cares for me so deeply. She can interpret my worries before they even fully form in my own head.

“You have my consent,” I assure her. “But now I must also ask yours.”

Her gorgeous green eyes widen in surprise. She searches my face, then she scans the length of my torso and thighs as I proudly remain on my knees.

“Yes. God, yes. You have my consent to do whatever feels good.”

Joy radiates from my soul. It’s incredible, receiving her permission so easily. Before I lose the nerve, I reposition my body behind hers, splay my hands on her low back, and encourage her to fully sink down on the roller between her thighs.

“Feel it, Mahina.”

She moans. I shift closer.

“Feel how powerful you are.” With both hands on her hips, I guide her to grind forward.

With a long, drawn-out roll of my hips, my body connects with her. Her ass to my groin, where a throbbing, newly awakened warrior greets her in full salute.

Teeth gritted, I press my cock between the mounds of her ass. “Feel what you do to me.”

“Si,” she whimpers, her head bowed.

“Don’t think, Mahina. Just feel. Feel it and own it. Let it encompass all you want to release.”

She does as she’s told, working the apex of her thighs against the foam roller, then rolling her hips back so her ass brushes against my erection.

We find a rhythm, though we abandon it quickly. We’re a mess of movement, both desperate to connect and inspire pleasure in one another.

“What you’re seeking is seeking you,” I remind her. But the words are in vain, for both of us, really. My body wants to bond with hers in ways it has never yearned for another.

Hunter picks up the pace, her pants and whimpers, too, increasing in speed. In neediness. In volume.

“It’s going to feel so good, Mahina. Look how exquisite you are.” I remove one hand and push my fingers through the hair on the back of her scalp, guiding her head to lift.

Another whimper. Another boiling hot moment of eye contact. Then, with a shaky breath, she corrects me.

“Look how exquisite we are. Look how perfectly we fit together.”

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually.

Every part of who I am is sated in this moment.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Mahina,” I whisper, my lips against her ear. “You were worth it. You are worth it. Through this moment and every lifetime we have yet to live, I will wait.”

Her movements become more erratic and hungry. I steady her hips and slow her speed, drawing out the build-up, ensuring she feels it all.

“You are my soul match,” I murmur. “I am complete with you by my side. I will spend the rest of this lifetime making sure you know how worthy and wanted you are.”

Boldly, my fingers explore beyond the safety of her hips, cupping her inner thighs and stretching her to the max.

“Yes. Fuck. Si…”

She’s close.

I pull her thighs apart, supporting more of her weight, and use all my strength and final strands of composure to keep the foam roller still.

“Si,” she moans. “Si. Si. Si.”

The desperation of her chant takes root deep in my chest, feeding my inner warrior and provoking a chemical reaction that builds in my core.

“Feel it, Mahina,” I beg. Once she comes undone, our subtle bodies will align and our souls will fuse together in a web that can never be untangled. I need her to feel it all.

“I’m coming,” she moans. Her thighs shake under my palms. Her body trembles with anticipation, then quakes with release. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

I watch her face in the mirror, desperate to witness the sanctity of this moment. The sweat. The tears. The undulating pleasure that possesses her, that has wiped away every ache and every pain that lived inside her minutes ago.

When she lifts her head, and her eyes lock with mine, my body reacts so viscerally it burns.

A moan escapes me. Tingles peak into mountain tops and sink into valleys as my cock pulses and I fill my shorts with warm, fresh seed.

I’m not just coming.

I’m be coming.

My highest self accepts that I have not fully lived in this lifetime or any other until now.

I have not fully lived until her.