Page 22 of Milo
“Yes, fucking way,” I say, tossing the Mr. Bump plasters onto the table and grabbing his arm again. “You don’t have a first aid kit,” I scold. “What were you thinking?”
“That I’m not two years old,” he says, wriggling as I uncap the Savlon and start to smooth it gently over the cut.
“Don’t be a baby.” My lip quirks. “Anyway, all the other boys will be really jealous of your Mr. Bump plaster. You watch, they’ll all want one,” I say mockingly as I put the plaster over the cut and press down gently.
Even so, he flinches and I stroke his arm comfortingly. He shudders, and the movement makes me realise how close we’re standing. Close enough that I can smell the sweet woody scent of his aftershave and feel the heat of his long, slim body.
I look up to find him watching me, his eyes dark and mysterious, and I jump back as if stung.
“Yoga,” I squeak and stop to clear my throat. He watches me silently and I rally and point to the mat. “Lie on your back with your knees raised and your feet on the floor.”
It’s much too abrupt and I immediately flush as he blinks. “I must say I’ve had that said to me before, but not normally in a manner that makes me want to salute first.”
“You haven’t lived then,” I say tartly.
He smirks but lowers himself gracefully to the mat. I try to ignore the sight of him lying in the lamplight at my feet and lower myself to the mat next to him where I sit cross-legged. “This is a good way to relax the muscles before you start. You need to lie still and focus on your breathing and feel the weight of your pelvis as it sinks to the floor.” He bites his lips with a smile in his eyes and I shake my head repressively. “Close your eyes if it helps.”
He closes his eyes, which certainly helps me because now I can ogle him to my heart’s content. “Okay,” I say, adjusting myself in my shorts and wishing my voice didn’t sound so low. “Now, you need to bring your right knee into your chest and at the same time stretch your left leg out on the mat. Imagine that you’re in a box and the wall is against your foot, so tilt it and push against that wall.”
He opens one eye. “I’m actually slightly claustrophobic. That is not the relaxing sort of image I’d expect from yoga. I’d imagined plinky-plonky music and candles and chanting.”
I’m instantly diverted. “You’re claustrophobic? Why do you think that is?” He opens his mouth to answer but I shake my head. “No, forget it. I don’t normally have this much chatter during my sessions. Just be quiet and breathe.”
“That has definitely been said to me before.”
“I can well believe it,” I say tartly. I direct him to do the same movement using his other side and then make him relax back into his starting position.
Dotty pads in and looks at us curiously before deciding that Niall’s position on the floor obviously makes him hers.
“Ugh, Dotty,” he protests. “Stop licking me.”
“I think that might be the first time in your life you’ve ever asked anyone to stop,” I say, watching as he shoos the cat away only for her to come back and try to pounce on him while he chuckles. Finally, she grows bored and leaves the room, twitching her tail and offering me a cold killer glance as she goes.
Niall resumes his position and I smile at him. “Okay, next you’re going to cross your right ankle over your left knee and bring the left knee up and hug it against your chest.”
“This is like fucking Twister,” he says testily. “How is this supposed to relax you?”
“It’s stretching you,” I say patiently. “It’s better than the rack. Although, that might at least have kept you quiet for a bit.” I look down at him where he’s lying with his face full of humour. “I’m sure you thought you’d leap straight into lotus position but that can’t happen because you’re a complete novice and you know absolutely nothing.”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice how much you enjoyed saying that,” he says darkly, and I grin.
“A little bit. Okay, let your spine lengthen with your breath and focus on your breathing.”
“Oh, am I supposed to be breathing? How is that possible when my knee is crushing my ribcage?”
“And yet you’re still managing to talk.”
He snorts. “Good point.”
I grin and look longingly at the way his trousers have stretched tight showing his magnificent arse. I jump when he coughs.
“When can we stop this?”
“Sorry,” I say, flustered. “Come gently out of that position and then get on your hands and knees.”
He smiles wickedly. “Now you’re talking. Yoga is fun.”
I shake my head. “This is yoga, not an audience with Julian Clary. No more innuendos.”
