I glance over my shoulder, laughter pouring from my lungs as the shock wears off, and he snaps into action, chasing me around the pottery studio—a place he knows like the back of his hand and I don’t. But that doesn’t stop me from trying.
My eyes catch on a small door at the end of the hall, clay- and paint-covered aprons hanging from it. His footsteps grow louder behind me, and I fling the door open, rush inside, and pant as I pull it shut. I fumble for a lock, but before I can click it into place, he’s wrenching the door open and slamming it shut behind him.
“You shouldn’t have done that, sweet girl,” he purrs. I back up, searching for the light switch, but my arse hits a wall, and I trip over something at my feet. He lurches forward, his cool, clay-covered hands slapping against my waist as he presses me against his body.
I can’t see anything, but Ifeelall of him, and, honestly, a repeat echocardiogram might not be a bad idea, because there’s no way this thumping in my chest is normal.
Without my eyesight in this windowless room, everything else becomes heightened: the press of his forehead against mine, his lips a breath away, his heavy weight against my slight frame. The concrete wall bites at my back, and my racing heart shifts into a sprint as my eyelids flutter closed in anticipation.
My breath hitches as his hands slide up the sides of my waist, so large they cover most of my skin.
“Is this okay?” he whispers into the dark between us. I’m so far past okay I could cry—or drag him deeper until neither of us remembers how to stop.
“Yes,” I pant out, my breath hitching at the sound of him groaning as he palms the lower half of my ribcage, flicking his thumbs in an arch that feathers over the bottom of my breasts.
“Adhira—” he whimpers, “are you trying to kill me?”
“Hmm?” I muse.
“No bra?” he rasps out, his hands climbing higher until the pads of his thumbs graze over the swells of my breasts, flicking my pebbled nipples as my knees buckle beneath me.
“You seem awfully affected by this for a man who hadn’t noticed sooner,” I tease.
“I do an excellent job of avoiding looking at the parts of your body that make me weak,” he admits. “Which means I try to keep my eyes off you at all costs, unless I have a pillow over my lap.” He huffs a laugh, but it does nothing to ease the tension growing between us.
“No knickers, either,” I say, goading him.
“Wh-what?” His hands go still, and my stomach plummets.Have I pushed this too far?
“Adhira,” he whispers, dropping his mouth to my collarbone, and I shiver in delight beneath his touch. “Are you telling me you’re dressed inmysweatpants andmyshirt, wearing nothing beneath them?” His breaths grow ragged with every word, and arousal coats my inner thighs.
I grasp one of his hands beneath the shirt in question, the one that’s about ten sizes too big and hits mid-thigh when I don’t tie it at the waist. Sliding his hand down, down,down, dipping beneath the waistband of the joggers I’ve knotted as tight as they’ll go. I help him lead a searing trail down to my core, releasing his hand for him to continue his perusal or to walk away. His choice.
He cups me between my thighs without hesitation, and I keen against him, whimpering as my lids flutter shut and I all but collapse into his chest.
He presses the heel of his palm against the sensitive bundle of nerves I’ve neglected these past months, biting my lip until I draw blood, determined not to let him see me break in this way too. Not yet. Not until he canreallysee me. He slides his hand out, resting it beside my head, and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead before stepping back, letting me catch my breath.
Confusion and embarrassment cloud my vision, but they’re washed away with the tide of his words. “My hands are covered in clay, and I can’tseeyou in here. I want this.” He reaches out to grip my chin, tilting my head back. “I wantus, but not like this. I want to be able to see you and have every part of you, not just your body.”
His words ease the ache that had grown in my chest. “I want that too,” I whisper, hit with the weight of the honesty in my words. I can almost hear his smile as he presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Let’s clean up and get out of here,” he says, opening the door and tugging me back to reality.
And that’s the story of the night I learned just how difficult it is to get dried clay off your pubes, no matter how well trimmed you think you have them.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-NINE
I’m goingto break their hearts.Those are the words playing on repeat in my mind as I pace around the small coffee table, my hands trembling as I wring them.
Elijah was only able to distract me for so long last night, and the anxiety that has taken root in my chest has grown unrelenting.
“Adhira, please stop pacing. You’re freaking me out,” Elijah whines, burying his face in his hands as he leans over the kitchen island. “You’ve rehearsed this conversation a dozen times.”
“Yes, and yet you keep telling me that I should justspeak from the heart,” I snap, rolling my eyes.
He chuckles, straightening and walking over to me, holding his arms open for me to walk into if I want. And I absolutelywant.
