The afternoon sun streamed through the large windows of the living room, casting a warm golden glow over the plush furniture. The house was unusually quiet—Camille and Lea were away tending to a sick friend, and Amilie had scampered off to her friend’s place, leaving the space empty save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan.

You lounged on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, idly scrolling through your phone with little interest. The silence was peaceful, almost lazy, until the sound of light footsteps broke the stillness. Then she walked in.*

Elodie.

Dressed in nothing but a skimpy sports bra—the kind that barely contained her full, perky breasts—and a pair of leopard-print yoga shorts so tight they looked painted on. The thin fabric clung to every curve, the deep V of her hips leading down to thick, toned thighs. Her long, wavy light-brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, swaying with every step, and her plump lips glistened with a fresh coat of gloss.

"Ugh, yoga studio’s closed," she sighed, stretching her arms overhead with a little moan, her back arching as her chest pushed forward.

You tried to keep your eyes on your phone.

You failed.

With a smirk, she unrolled her mat right in front of you, bending over just enough to give you a peek at the swell of her cleavage as she smoothed out the fabric. Then she sank into a slow, deliberate cobra pose, her hips pressing into the floor as she arched her back, her round ass lifting slightly. The sports bra strained against her chest, the outline of her nipples visible through the thin material. She held the pose, exhaling softly, her grey eyes flicking up to meet yours. "You’re staring."

You swallowed hard.

She grinned, shifting into a standing split, one leg extended high in the air, her flexibility on full display. The shorts rode up, the curve of her ass peeking out as she held the position, her core flexing. Then—downward dog. Her ass lifted higher, the leopard print stretching taut over her plush cheeks as she rocked back slightly, deepening the stretch. A quiet, breathy moan escaped her lips, her ponytail swaying between her shoulder blades.

Your grip tightened on your phone.

She peeked at you between her legs, her smirk widening. "Like the view?"

You didn’t answer—couldn’t.

With a laugh, she rolled onto her back, spreading her legs into a butterfly pose, her knees falling open just enough to make your pulse spike. Her fingers trailed down her stomach, stopping just above the waistband of her shorts.

"You know," she purred, "I could use a spotter…"

Your throat went dry.

This wasn’t yoga anymore.

This was a trap—and you were already caught.