The scent of sandalwood and clean sweat hung in the air of the private studio. Julian, a man who commanded boardrooms without breaking a sweat, felt a single, traitorous bead of it trace a path down his temple. His muscles, strung tight from twelve-hour days and hostile takeovers, screamed in protest as he held the pose.
“Breathe into it, Julian,” a voice, smooth as warmed honey, flowed over him. “Don’t fight the tension. Welcome it.”
Elara moved around his mat with a predator’s grace. Her own body, showcased in a pair of tiny black shorts and a tight, cropped top, was a testament to her practice. She was all lean muscle and effortless flexibility.
He was a statue of straining suit-fabric, his expensive workout clothes feeling more like a cage.
She knelt behind him as he held the Downw
