“Oh? Is that so?” He stepped forward.
“Don’t be cheeky.”
Another step forward for him, another step back for me.
“Cheeky?”
My back hit the brick of the kiln.
Arkady’s hands rested on the stones on either side of my body.
My face must have been a wild red, the heat making me wonder how the ceramics must feel when they were fired. Even when I looked away from him, I could still smell his cologne, feel his body temperature, hear—
“You seem agitated.” His voice was sonorous, like a freshly rosined bow across a cello. His eyes trailed down to my dress, fixating on the clay dust smudged over my skirt. “I can’t help but wonder if that is my doing.”
“Clever and receptive,” I gritted, staring up at him.
His eyes held a sharp wit that made sure you knew he was watching, a hawk ready to snatch a stray mouse. His skin and hair reminded me of natural clay, not dissimilar to the kind he used. How ironic that someone so alluring was such a sociopath, surely a narcissist at the very least.
“Why did you come?” His face was inches from mine, teasing the air around us with a sort of electric static that shocked me from my thoughts. “And don’t say it’s because youmissedme,” he teased.
“You didn’t come to bed,” I breathed.
“I thought it would be rude, considering the circumstances.”
“No, you thought I would be easy. You were thrown off.”
“You aren’t what I expected. I’ll admit that.”
“I am not of your tastes?”
“I’m trying to be a gentleman.” He tilted his head to the side and glanced at my lips. “Unless it is the ungentlemanly types you like?”
His hands grabbed my hips.
“Stop!” I squeaked. My heart fluttered between my ribs like a startled cardinal. “You’ll leave prints!”
He raised one hand, gently trailing his finger along my cheek, the other smearing the clay dust up my waist. The heat of his hand lingered, but the hotness was faint compared to my own embarrassment. “I wish I could capture the color of your cheeks when they’re flustered, it would make a perfect glaze.”
My mouth dropped open to speak, but no words would manifest on my tongue.
“Dare I suggest that it isIwho is not of your taste?” He retreated completely.
I swallowed hard, not knowing if it was difficult due to dust or apprehension.
He turned his back to me and approached his lonely stool next to the unfinished statue, sitting down to begin his work once more.
“I—I will see you at home.” I gathered my resolve once more.
He didn’t bother to look my way, though the last thing I saw was a flash of a smirk pulling at his lips, a mischievous glint in his eye showing more interest than he let on. Though, it was possible that analysis was a projection of my own desires.
Chapter Five
The Artisan
The air was dry like chapped palms over sherpa wool. The day was full of irritants, every event an abrasive particle. The barren air, my unpaid debts—even my wife—were nagging me today.
The embalming room was a cold basement, some cellar windows to let a smidge of light through. Despite the desolate, sterile appearance—there was so much opportunity for enlightenment.
