I love watching him eat. The way he chews. Even the way he holds his pita is sexy. I shift in my seat, holding back a moan when he takes a sip from his beer bottle and his thick forearm flexes.
“Can you teach me?” he asks, once we’re done eating.
“Teach you what?”
He motions to my spinning wheel with his eyes.
“You want to learn pottery?”
“I want you to teach me pottery,” he corrects with a sexy look. “Will you show me how?”
“Sure,” I say, a little unsteady as I head over to the speaker. I put on a playlist with some slow, sultry trip-hop—low beats, smoky vocals, music that sinks into your skin and stays there. I like working to this playlist sometimes. It always makes me think of sex, so it’s perfect.
Teardropby Massive Attack starts playing through the studio and with the golden lights dimmed, the whole place has a sexy vibe.
“Have you ever done this before?” I ask as we head over to the wheel. I tap the pedal with my toe, bringing it to life.
“No,” he says as he sits down on the stool. “I’ve only seen that scene from Ghost. The one where Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze go at it.”
“Don’t get me started on that scene,” I say with a huff.
“Why? Unrealistic?”
I roll my eyes. “She made this tall beautiful vase which probably took her three hours to sculpt, and then he just sits down and pokes it with his stupid finger and the whole thing immediately collapses.”
“Oomph,” he says. “Rookie move.”
“I didn’t even get to the most unrealistic part yet!” I say, getting worked up. “She just laughs like being an asshole is so cute!” I throw my arms in the air and he chuckles.
“But that scene after…” he says, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s wet clay,” I say, pulling up a stool behind him. “It’s not very sexy.”
But as soon as I slide up behind him, his body pushing my thighs open, my hands around his muscular frame, his masculine scent filling my lungs… I know I’m wrong.
This isverysexy.
“Take a handful of clay,” I tell him, my voice all weirdly raspy, “and toss it onto the middle of the wheel.”
He does and I show him how to push the pedal with his foot, spinning it around.
“Hold on,” I say when he’s about to touch the clay. “Your hands need to be wet.”
I swallow hard as I dip my hand into the bowl of warm water. I slide my hands onto his, getting them nice and wet. He groans as he feels my slick fingers sliding all over his hands.
“I think I’m going to like pottery,” he says as he rubs my hands with his.
The humming of the wheel mixes with the soft sensual beat of the music.
“Too much talking, Mr. April,” I whisper as I get in closer, pressing my breasts against his broad muscular back. “Don’t make me get my bamboo stick.”
“You’re going to whip me?” he asks, looking over his shoulder with a grin. “Now, I’mreallygoing to like pottery.”
“Hands like this,” I tell him, wrapping my fingers over his, guiding them down, firm but gentle. “You have to be steady. Confident.”
The wheel spins. The clay grows wet and warm beneath our palms.
Has pottery always been this sensual? I had no idea…
