Ginny led Hermione into a hallway plastered with posters and promises of rejuvenation.
Through the glass wall, she could see women in various positions on the floor, reminding her of the recent tryst that left her madly pining since.
“You’ve been so stressed lately,” Ginny said, “you’ll definitely benefit from this.”
Hermione eyed her best friend warily. The last time she joined one of these “meditative classes,” a floral-tunic-wearing-Asian-Jesus hippie subjected them to a relentless gong bath that triggered her tinnitus.
But she was right.
Hermione’s executive functions had been fighting a losing battle with her baser instincts lately. Lascivious memories of her one-night stand with a French blonde beauty kept hijacking her mind, evoking a raw desire and a consuming desperation.
Hermione’s jaw clenched, recalling the blonde’s sinful body, grinding against her. The beads of sweat on the blonde’s slender neck, sliding down her freckled chest as Hermione took her. How she tasted like sea salt and sweet shiraz as she glided her tongue against the pink puckered—
She was yanked off her dirty reminiscing when Hermione’s gaze landed on the familiar blonde in a compromising position, with her neck and shoulders on the floor, and hips thrusted toward the ceiling, looking exactly like—
Bang!
Hermione walked into the glass door so hard it blurred her vision. She shook her head and clarity set in. The poster on the door smudged with sunscreen in the shape of her forehead read, “Your first week of yoga classes is on us.”