Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
As we reach the entrance of the studio, she stops and looks up at me with a soft, hopeful expression. “Do you want to try your hand at making something?” she asks, nodding toward the studio. “Just for a minute?”
Making pottery has never crossed my mind in my life. Not once. The idea of sitting at a wheel, shaping wet clay into something that will inevitably be useless to me feels completely foreign, quite ridiculous for a man like me. But then I look at her.
Her eyes are bright with a quiet, hopeful excitement, and that hits me straight in the chest. The way she’s looking at me — soft, expectant, like she’s sharing a secret part of herself and hoping I’ll step into it with her — makes it impossible to say no. I feel that pull again, deep and undeniable, the same one that’s been dragging me toward her since the beginning. What the hell? I can make something useless this afternoon.
“Sure,” I say, my voice rough around the edges. “Why not?”
Breaking into a huge grin, she takes my hand and pulls me through the door. She leads me straight to her wheel near the window. I sit down on the stool, feeling utterly awkward and absurd in my tailored suit. Fuck it, the fabric is already smudged with streaks of clay from the broken pieces earlier, anyway.
I look up at her expectantly. My shoulders feel too broad for this space, my hands too big, too rough for something this delicate. But she doesn’t laugh at me. Not even a little. She just moves behind me with that quiet grace of hers, leaning over my shoulder until her body presses lightly against my back. The warmth of her seeps through my jacket, and I have to fight the urge to close my eyes.
Then she places her hand over mine on the fresh lump of clay.
The moment her fingers cover mine, slick, warm, steady, everything else disappears.
It’s too sensual. The wet slip of the clay under our joined palms, cool and yielding, the slow, hypnotic spin of the wheel beneath us. Her body is right there, pressed softly against my back, her breath warm and steady on the side of my neck. I can feel every small shift of her as she leans in closer, guiding me. My pulse kicks hard, heavy and insistent, and I’m suddenly aware of every point where we touch — her chest brushing my shoulder, her thigh against the side of the low stool, the faint floral scent of her skin mixing with the raw earthiness of the clay.
I get lost in her.
Something starts to take shape under our hands, rising slowly, walls thinning and lifting with each carnal press. I watch it, but my focus keeps slipping to the way her fingers move with mine. She is goddess-like in her calm confidence, teaching me without words. When I press too hard, the side collapses in on itself with a soft, wet slump. She lets out a soft, amused laugh right by my ear, the sound low and warm, vibrating through me.
“Focus,” she admonishes, but there’s no bite in it, just a gentle breath.
I look up at her.
Our eyes meet, and I get completely lost in those pools of green. She’s so fucking beautiful, so alive, the late light catching in her hair and turning it gold around her face. In that moment it hits me again — hard, deep, undeniable. I’m in love with this woman. The moment has been waiting deep inside me for years, and now it is finally clicking into place.
A slow smirk tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
“If we can mold your breasts,” I murmur, voice low and rough against the quiet hum of the wheel, “then I’m sure I’ll get the hang of this.”
She bursts out laughing, the sound bubbling out of her and filling the studio like sunlight. I lean in, one hand still on the clay, and kiss her. She melts voluptuously into it, her fingers tightening over mine on the clay, her body pressing closer against my back.
Eventually, somehow, we manage to shape a decent bowl together. She sits back, cheeks flushed, breath a touch uneven, and looks down at what we made.
“You’re first bowl,” she says softly, voice warm with something that sounds a lot like happiness. “I’ll get this fired in the kiln and bring it home to you when it’s ready.”
I nod and imagine it sitting on a shelf in our place, something we made together, something that’s ours.
Chapter Forty-Nine
RICCI
When the studio door clicks shut behind me, I walk a little way, then stop on the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the late afternoon sun warm on the back of my neck. I should drive off. I should trust the men I already have watching the block. But something in my chest won’t let me. I lean against the brick wall across the street, half-hidden by the shadow of an awning, and watch her through the big windows of the studio.