“I see,” I breathed, leaning back into him. The clay and water were a bit cold, offsetting the mugginess from before.
I watched his arms, every small inflection of the muscles resulting in the soft, precise guidance of his hands.
The wheel slowed to a halt.
He shifted to grab a wire, pulling it along the base to slice the vase from the wheel and hold it up. “See? Do you want to try on your own now?”
“That wasn’t hard.” I shifted in my seat. “I’ll make a cup next.”
“It’s easy to say when your hands don’t have to move on their own.” He placed the vase aside and leaned over for more clay, slapping it down on the wheel again.
The lump turned slowly, then blurred as it moved faster. When my hands met the clay, it shook with such force, I had to lean over, squeezing it into a tall form that still wobbled no matter how I molded it. Perhaps I’d spoken too soon; he’d made it look so easy.
“Good, now try to press your hand flat. Into a dome, like last time.” He wiped his hands clean with a wet rag.
I pressed my palm down on it, trying my best to force it into the dome like Arkady had. It may have taken me a minute longer, the clay becoming dry by the time it was in shape.
“That’s good,” he said, “but don’t forget to keep it damp.”
I scooped my hand in the murky water bucket, watching it trickle steadily onto the material. The matte turned to gloss as it spun, ready to be formed once more. As I cupped it in my hands, pressing my thumbs into the middle, it opened up to me hesitantly.
“Hmm, unsure hands make for shaky work,” Arkady said into my ear, his hands resting on my thighs.
“Maybe you make me nervous,” I whispered, digging farther into the clay with my fingers, though part of the cup’s lip was becoming too thin.
“Do I?” he hummed, his lips pressing behind my ear, hot against my pulse. “Make you nervous, that is?”
My breath shook, reluctant to be released, to be heard escaping.
His hands pressed on my thighs, then found their way to my waist. I held my breath, frozen with my clay-covered hands on the wheel.
“Arkady,” I swallowed.
“Hm?” he hummed into my neck. His grip on me tightened as he pressed his body against mine. A soft kiss on my skin, a hand cupping my breast.
“Why must you tease me?” I whimpered.
“Because it is fun.” He let out a breathy laugh. “The more you squirm, the less I’m able to resist toying with you.”
“You’re a dog.”
“And you love it all the same,” he growled, hand moving up to my throat, only pressing gently to keep me in place.
He let out a groan, his body shifting behind mine. His lips found my neck again, sucking gently on the skin.
I winced and dug my nails into the clay, holding on for dear life.
The fresh bruise on my neck, his breath against my skin, my heart pounding at my rib cage, desperate to be free. Forget the kiln, I could burn up in an instant from his touch alone.
He sucked low on my neck this time, leaning back, my body trapped in his grasp.
“Trapped” was an accurate description, yet it made my insides jump at the thought. To be caught, to be ravished. Just the thought manifested as a weak, needy gasp.
My hips shifted. There was a tension between his legs; I could feel it against my backside.
With his free hand, he reached down, slipping his hand under the waistband of my skirt.
“Wait—”
