Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel)

by Jessica Topper

  As he had suspected, a small silver ring graced her navel. It had a tiny orange jewel dangling from it. Now there’s a perfect focal point, he thought. “May I?” He pinched his own T-shirt, fanning it on and off his damp skin.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Rick slowly pulled his shirt over his head, suddenly feeling a bit exposed. God, I hope she doesn’t ask about the misericorde, he prayed. The dagger inked into his chest and similarly into Digger’s paid homage to their shared adolescent obsession with medieval weaponry and Nordic legends. His pat response when anyone—from women to other musicians to journalists—inquired about the origin of his tattoo was always a flippant “Never you mind,” but he had a feeling he would confess everything to this one.

  Sidra

  Body in Space

  Holy hell, thought Sidra. It’s a hundred degrees and I’ve lost my shirt and most of my willpower. She almost wished she hadn’t driven Benny away, now that she found herself alone with the hot prof.

  She no longer thought of him as Mr. Import. As much as his attitude had irked her during those first few sessions, she now looked forward to his presence in class. There was something electric about him. Her fantasies had multiplied exponentially over the last week. She’d sneak glances after sending him into a challenging pose, just to observe how his muscle groups handled the strain. As much as she enjoyed his bare limbs on display, she wondered how he looked out of the gym and in front of a classroom. Did he stand behind a podium and dryly lecture, or was he animated, pacing, provoking his students to think? She liked to believe the latter. She tried to picture him in a faculty meeting in well-fitting jeans and a blazer, still with that ever-present leather choker at his throat. It made her slightly dizzy to think of peeling the blazer off, unbuttoning the crisp oxford he’d be wearing beneath . . .

  Now he was shirtless, and she was actually dizzy. It’s got to be the heat, she thought, turning and retreating toward her mat under the lamp. Eternally burning. Yep. She and the lamp had something in common.

  “That quote above the bimah is perfect—about yoga being a flame that never dims.”

  “Above the what?”

  “Bee-mah,” he enunciated. “The platform where you usually demonstrate. That’s called the bimah. I guess like a pulpit in a church?”

  She turned to face him. He stood on his mat, curls framing his face. Her face heated at the sight of the heavy-gauge silver rings piercing his nipples. One lone tattoo graced his bare torso; it was a sword of some kind. “You surprise me.”

  “How so?”

  Gee, where do I begin? “I didn’t peg you for a religious type.”

  “I’m not. In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t burst into flames standing on such hallowed ground.” He gave a short laugh. “But seriously. I’ve felt a connection to this place all along that I couldn’t explain. It’s mostly the yoga, I think, yet there’s something more.”

  He had the most intense and intelligent eyes. While most people conveyed emotions through their mouths, literally or figuratively through words and facial expressions, this guy spoke through his eyes. Sidra was almost afraid to look into them, and she definitely didn’t want to continue this line of conversation any further.

  She bent and pulled a burgundy-colored scarf from the basket by her mat. She often used scarves of various colors in her kids yoga classes, especially to teach them about belly breathing. They loved when she would lay scarves over their faces and have them try to blow them upward and off.

  “Do you know what proprioception is?” she asked, winding the scarf through her fingers. “No? It’s the awareness of your body in space.” She moved closer, close enough to ascertain that there was writing surrounding the blade of the dagger on his chest. It wasn’t in English, or any language she was familiar with. “Like when I cue you for Table”—she waited while he assumed the Table position—“you know exactly where your knees and hands should be.”

  Sidra circled him. She smiled as he made the tiniest adjustments to correct himself. He had come a long way since day one. “Let’s see that Down Dog again.” He arched up, and this time she didn’t have to adjust him. “You’ve got amazing muscle.” She gulped involuntarily. “Muscle memory.”

  “Job perk.” He grinned smugly up at her. “Or job hazard.”

  “Plank,” she replied, refusing to return his smile. He rolled his eyes, but obeyed. “And don’t forget to breathe.”

  “Impossible,” he managed.

  “To forget? Or to breathe?” She moved in front of him. “Can you move to High Lunge?”

  She observed him as he swept a foot through and came up, thighs shaking, arms glistening. In lunge, they were about the same height. “Use that back foot to really ground you. Up, up, up. Nice. But can you stay balanced if you close your eyes?” His dark lashes fanned his cheeks as he allowed his eyes to close. “Keeping you honest,” she explained, and reached to tie the scarf around his head.

  “Shouldn’t I be paying you extra for this?”

  “You already are.”

  He gave a laugh, but Sidra detected some nervous energy.

  “Does this make you anxious?”

  “No, I’m . . . it’s fine.”

  She was so close to him now, tucking the loose ends of the scarf to secure it. Clichéd fantasies flitted past her, but she refused to give chase and let her imagination run wild.

  Move away, she chastised herself. Stop inhaling him! He smelled good, though, despite the stale heat of the room. Like lime and clove.

  She touched his shoulders lightly, under the pretense of steadying him. God, am I pathetic or what? She never wanted anyone to touch her when she was doing yoga, and never liked the idea of couples yoga. But around him, she found herself breaking her own rules and wanting to be closer.

  “I tried this at a yoga retreat once. Remember, body in space.”

  “Body in space,” he repeated.

  “Awkward Chair.”

  He groaned, but did it anyway.

  “Fists of Fire.” She took him through several sequences, and even blindfolded, he never wavered.

  “Tree pose,” she said quietly. He shakily attempted to kickstand his right heel to his left ankle, bringing his hands out. Once he steadied himself, he slowly raised his leg higher against his calf and raised his arms high.

  “Never against your knee,” she scolded. “And those shoulders should be nowhere near your ears.” She ran her palms over his bare shoulders to cue them lower. She wanted to explore further, imagining the solid resistance of his biceps as she squeezed them. “Come on, I shouldn’t have to correct you.”

  Her harsh tone of annoyance surprised her, but not as much as the realization that she was annoyed with herself. I shouldn’t want to touch him.

  “Don’t keep your breath to yourself,” she commanded, taking a step back from her sightless charge. “You’ve got it. Bind the pose.”

  She felt his warm exhale as his hands met high above his head. She sighed, longing to melt into him, but as she leaned closer, he almost toppled into her.

  “Sod it,” he mustered under his next inhale, and she felt a rush of air as his arms swept to pull her toward him, his lips landing on hers in a decadent crush.

  “I always know where your body is in space,” he murmured, capturing her top lip in both of his. “I can’t get you off my mind, Sidra.”

  It may have been the first time she heard him say her name, but the flow of it off his tongue sounded ancient, sacred. Sidra moved to pull the blindfold off him, just as he reached to push her sports bra up. She raised her arms for him. It wasn’t the sexiest thing she had ever had to slip out of, but she felt like a goddess under his gaze and his touch. Her hair tickled the small of her back as she arched luxuriously and allowed him to rain gentle, open-mouthed nips down her neck.

  God, was she insane? She barely knew him.

  Her nipples pebbled up under the nimble caress of his tongue. When was the last time anyone had touched her like this?
She ran her fingers down his strong jaw line, savoring the rough scruff before tilting his chin and bringing her lips down to meet his once more. She felt him tremble as her tongue landed on his in a bold, exploring kiss.

  Down they went, onto the mat as one, arms tangled languidly around necks. The kisses were less pressing now, more lingering as they teased and tasted each other’s skin. She had a crazy urge to memorize his tattoo with her mouth, starting at the tip of it right above his navel. She licked her way up the blade of the knife, only leaving it to flick each steel ring and their captive beads. She had never encountered piercings on a man before, not this intimately. He groaned and bucked up against her.

  The thin cotton of her yoga pants and the mesh of his athletic shorts barely provided a barrier, but nonetheless they were a line Sidra allowed fingers to dance upon but not cross. She was on top and she was in charge. Zero 7 flowed softly from the stereo in the corner. It was one of her favorites: a flowing, soaring melody with lyrics she always thought would be perfect to make love to. But not here, in her workspace with this almost perfect stranger. What were they doing, dry-humping like two horny teenagers on a yoga mat?

  She needed to collect herself, gather her head, but his body felt so amazing under hers, those dark eyes pools of serious depth that had drawn her in. She swept down for one last gentle kiss upon his waiting lips, her hair spilling across his bare shoulders. Their sighs and movements had an almost vinyasa-like flow to them, in calm unison, but she knew—no, she feared—how quickly they could lose control if given the chance. It felt way too good to keep it contained for much longer.

  “Savasana,” she breathed, peeling her body away from his and rolling onto her back beside him. “We forgot to end with Savasana.”

  “I didn’t realize we were finished,” he countered, his breathing rough. She smiled to herself as his fingers found hers and they lay, staring up at the scattering of shadows cast on the ceiling by the eternal light.

  “What’s that called again?”

  “Ner tamid.”

  She repeated the words, wishing her pulse would settle down.

  “Why do we always need Savasana anyway?” He closed his eyes and drew a ragged breath. “Hardly seems necessary; wasted time that could be spent on more yoga.”

  “The body needs this time,” she explained, turning so her lips grazed his earlobe. “To understand the new information it’s received . . . through practicing yoga.”

  Sidra closed her eyes, too, needing to contemplate her words and how they applied to this unexpected and not unpleasant turn of events. She liked the feel of his strong fingers, confidently clasped over hers.

  “Corpse pose.” He laughed. “Gets me every time you call it that in class.”

  “Why?”

  Propping himself up on an elbow, he traced lazy circles around her navel. “I’ve spent half my life in a different kind of Corpse pose. Traded my soul for a guitar at age seventeen, and the devil made me famous by twenty. Ever since, I’ve had to fight gravity to stay at the top, to be the big star. I never knew the view was so good from down here.”

  It took a moment for his words to register with Sidra, but she had already gone into protection mode, sliding out of his grasp. “I—I don’t understand. I thought . . . you’re a professor, right?”

  “What? Good God, no! Why would . . . Oh, because of Paul’s ID? I took that first class at NYU on recommendation from my son. He’s the professor, not me. Cripes, this is a bit roundabout, but . . .” He sat up, extending his hand toward the one she had pulled away. “I’m Rick.”

  Sidra snatched her damp T-shirt from the floor, turning away. “Well, Rick. I think you’d better leave now.”

  He sputtered a laugh. “Are you—”

  “Seriously. Please go. Now.”

  * * *

  A band, of all things! Another musician. It figures, Sidra fumed. The city streets flared with a hot temper to match hers. She propelled herself around clusters of people clogging the sidewalk, all slowed to a sluggish pace by the heat. Another huge ego in tight pants. Not interested. The endless red light at Houston and Essex had forced her to a stop, but her brain was still reeling full speed ahead. She hammered the pedestrian walk button with an impatient thumb. Seamus had recently told her of a study revealing those buttons as nothing but a placebo, designed to give New Yorkers an illusion of control while the crossing signal just continued its operation as programmed. “Well, that figures, too,” she said aloud, not caring if anyone took her for crazy, ranting on the corner.

  Rick—so that was his name—Rick had pushed her buttons something fierce. She had no doubt he was probably used to rolling around half-naked with girls all the time before bothering to learn their names. Well, that wasn’t the way she operated.

  A professor. God, she was stupid.

  It may as well have been her wearing the blindfold tonight.

  Out with the briefcase and hipster tweed fantasies. No suede elbow patches or lecterns. Once again, a musician had her heart pounding an uncontrollable beat. A tattooed, pierced, brooding, totally sexy musician.

  She recalled his breath on her cheek, the song he had made out of her name.

  He had known her name.

  I can’t get you off my mind, Sidra.

  The light was now in her favor, but she stood rooted to the spot, cheeks burning.

  Rick

  Tangled Up in Blue

  The Ramones stuttered about the number of hours in a day at top volume from the car stereo of the Mini. ’Kin hell, Rick thought. Twenty-four hours prior, he had had his hands and his mouth full of Sidra. As soft and as intoxicating as the wild tiger lilies whizzing by his window, dizzying him.

  How ever was he going to get through the weekend without seeing her, without talking to her? Perhaps the Ramones were on to something. He wanted to be sedated, too. Put me in a coma til Monday night, he thought.

  Sidra had all but kicked him to the curb last night. Rick wasn’t sure if “go now” meant “come back later” or “fuck off don’t bother.” He thought of a million things he could have done differently, starting with the fact that he could have cleared up the issue of his bloody name from the get-go.

  He had lived in a town of less than five hundred people for the last twenty years. Hanalei was just small enough for everyone to know their neighbor and just quirky enough not to care about Riff Rotten or the handful of other famous freaks who sought refuge from their nonsensical notoriety there. And since coming to New York, he had been living in a sort of similar limbo.

  Take any given day on the subway. Strangers felt compelled to strike up conversation like they knew him, or chose to inhabit comfortable silence; the looks on many of their faces revealed they knew of him. New Yorkers conveyed an aloof reverence, for the most part. When was the last time he had had to introduce himself, cold, to another person? Let alone a beautiful woman in a state of half undress?

  Oh, he had fucked up big-time.

  “What’s got your tongue?” Kat asked, glancing in the rearview. “You’re awfully quiet, Riff.”

  “Didn’t he tell you? He’s gone all yogi on us,” Adrian teased. Rick had half a mind to give the front seat a kick, wishing it were a direct blow to Adrian’s arse instead.

  “Are Sheena and Judy friends?” Abbey broke in. “Uncle Riff, do you know Sheena and Judy?”

  “I’m sorry, luv. Who?”

  “Sheena is a punk rocker. And Judy is a punk. In these songs,” she pointed out. “So I wanna know if they know each other.”

  God bless the Ramones. “I’m sure Johnny and Joey really knew girls like Sheena and Judy,” Rick explained.

  “And Jackie, too,” Adrian reminded them.

  “I think that’s great,” Kat said, her eyes meeting Rick’s in the mirror.

  * * *

  “Do you mind if I nip down to the beach?”

  “No, go right ahead.” Kat was reaching in the cupboard for pasta. “Mi casa es su casa, and the beach, too. Dinner in about
half an hour.”

  “Thanks, Kat.”

  The arc of soft sand was a mere fingernail clipping compared to the vast Polihale beach back home. Still, Rick felt transported the minute he let his toes sink down. Actually, the shape of the lake, with its seclusion of trees, reminded him very much of Hanalei Bay, a smaller beach closer to his house.

  He walked to the lip of the water. He glanced left, then right. Alone with his body and his thoughts, he nestled one elbow in the crook of the other and wound his arms into Eagle pose, with his palms meeting in prayer.

  Splaying the toes of his left foot in the firm wet sand, he carefully lifted and balanced his right leg before crossing it over his left. He hinged at the hip, bowing to the watery blue horizon. He had never felt so entangled yet so calm in all his life.

  And he had Sidra to thank for that.

  Sidra

  Snogging and Celibacy

  “Who’s going to paint my toes while you’re gone?” Sidra pouted, inspecting her brother’s perfect pedicure work.

  “Jeez, Sid. Go to a professional. Pretty toes are part of your job; I would think it could be a tax write-off.” Seamus blew gently to dry the polish. His hands were the steadiest in the household, and he had always claimed the practice, and the vapors, were therapeutic.

  Fiona looked out from behind her gossip magazine. “Do me next, do me!” She leaned back on the couch and perched her own bare feet up on the coffee table in anticipation.

  Seamus gave her an eyebrow raise and directed a snort toward Sidra. Fiona hadn’t exactly played hard to get when they were teens, before Mikey had made an honest woman of her.

  “Fuck you, Shay.” Fiona rolled her magazine and whacked him for being a dirty dog.

  “Hello, ladies.” Mikey lugged himself through the front door of the brownstone apartment and collapsed, work boots and all, across Fiona’s lap on the couch. “Christ, what a day. Dad had me moving ten tons of shit in the back room this afternoon. I don’t understand. For a retired guy, why does he still have so much work to do?” Fiona leaned down and laid a kiss on his sweaty cheek in consolation. “Just what I want to see at the end of the day: My cousin down on his knees, servicing everyone. Jesus.”