When his father marries a hot young yoga teacher, Billy tries his best to ignore her. But Kelly wants the two of them to bond over yoga. Getting up close and personal with this vivacious woman only stokes Billy's lust, so he hatches a plan to claim her for himself. It won't be easy with his father just around the corner…
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
Kelly was a hygienist and part-time yoga instructor, which could have predicted the downfall. As soon as she and my dad started getting more serious (about partway through the school year), she would stay the night, and I would be treated, on those mornings, to Kelly in the living room doing her exercises in nothing but her skintight yoga shorts and sports bra.
Now, Kelly was 28, and her abdominals looked like they'd been cut with soft glass…but her bottom on those mornings…with the sun glinting off the thin fabric of her shorts…was a round, plump confection. It was sweet, is what I mean to say. No, morning wood did not make these yoga routines any easier to sit through. I'd spill my cornflakes, I'd trip over my robe (note, I never started wearing a robe until Kelly started staying the night), I'd do my damnedest not to stare.
Of course she was also polite enough to ask if I wanted to watch the TV, and if I wanted her to move. Except…not too polite.
How do I put this? The whole time she and my father were dating, she never really fell over herself trying to impress me. I guess that's the best way to say it. Most women who my father had dated (in the beginning, closer to my mom's age) had gone out of their way to show an interest in my schoolwork or water polo, or try to initiate conversation. Kelly didn't do that. Again, she was polite, she was nice, but she didn't concern herself with things she didn't really want to know, or small talk she didn't really want to have. Maybe it was because we were closer in age.
So, when I say “not too polite,” I mean…when I'd come downstairs at the crack of dawn to wolf down breakfast before water polo practice, and Kelly would be there, a half head shorter than me with her soft breasts bound in the tight black sports bra, her chest jutting out into space and one long, lithe leg sticking straight out towards the sun and the barest of light sneaking between the crack of her bottom and the tiny beads of perspiration highlighting her contours, upper lip, forehead and calves…I mean that when she said, «Do you want to watch TV, Billy?” there was always the lingering hint of sarcasm in those words.
She usually didn't say much more than that, but the question was never straightforward, ever. It was a subtle, barely there accusation, a hint, a ghost of a tease, as if she were asking, “Can you think of something better to watch than me right now?”
Those mornings I tried to eat my breakfast, get my shorts on and get the hell out of there before I did something stupid.