The thoughtfulness of the gesture nearly undid her. Her casual comment about missing the pottery nights with her friends, mentioned in passing weeks ago—he had not only remembered but created this entire space in response.
“It’s perfect,” she said, turning to wrap her arms around his waist. “Absolutely perfect.”
“I have clay ready,” he said, clearly pleased by her reaction. “And these.”
He gestured to a pair of aprons hanging nearby.
“You should probably change into something that can get messy,” he suggested. “Clay has a tendency to get everywhere, from what I’ve read.”
Morgan considered this, a playful idea forming. “You’re right.” She said as she grabbed the smaller apron from it’s hook. “Give me five minutes.”
In their bedroom, Morgan quickly shed her work clothes, considering her options. She could put on yoga pants and a t-shirt as Archer probably expected. Or...
A mischievous smile curved her lips as she made her decision. She released her hair from its professional updo, letting it fall in loose waves past her shoulders. Then, wearing nothing at all, she returned to the pottery room, the apron held strategically in front of her.
Archer had his back to the door, adjusting something on the pottery wheel, his back muscles on display. When she cleared her throat, he turned—and froze, his eyes widening as they traveled from her face downward, taking in her bare shoulders, the hints of skin visible at the sides of the apron.
“Is this appropriate pottery attire?” she asked innocently.
Archer’s laugh was low, rich with appreciation. “It’s going to be extremely difficult to concentrate,” he admitted, his gaze heated as she crossed to him. “But I’m willing to make the sacrifice.”
Morgan tied the apron behind her back, the fabric covering just enough to be tantalizing rather than explicit. Archer’s eyes tracked her movements, desire evident in his expression.
“Shall we begin?” she asked, nodding toward the pottery wheel.
With visible effort, Archer gathered himself. “Yes. Let’s... make pottery.”
He took a seat on the padded bench, legs straddling it as he faced the wheel. He patted the space between his thighs. “You sit here, in front.”
Morgan settled between his legs, her back against his chest, the position immediately intimate. She could feel the solid warmth of him behind her, surrounding her, his breath stirring her hair.
“First,” he murmured close to her ear, sending shivers down her spine, “We need to wet the clay.”
He reached around her to a bowl of water, dipping his hands before taking a lump of gray clay and placing it on the wheel. Morgan followed suit, wetting her hands and reaching forward. Their fingers met on the cool, slick surface of the clay, his larger hands guiding hers.
“The trick is to center it properly,” Archer explained, his voice low and close to her ear. “Otherwise, everything that follows will be off-balance.”
The wheel began to spin as they worked the clay together, their fingers intertwined, slip-sliding over the gradually softening material. The sounds were unexpectedly suggestive—wet and rhythmic. Intimate. Morgan felt heat building low in her abdomen,intensified by the solid press of Archer’s body behind her, the occasional brush of his bare chest against her back where the apron left her exposed.
“Like this?” she asked, pressing into the clay, feeling it yield beneath their combined touch.
“Perfect,” he breathed, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear. “Now we need to open the center.”
His thumbs pressed down into the middle of the spinning clay, creating a well as their fingers maintained the outer shape. The metaphor wasn’t lost on Morgan—the gradual opening, the careful expansion, the trust required to shape something beautiful together.
Archer’s kisses trailed down her neck to her shoulder, his attention clearly divided between the clay and the woman in his arms. Morgan leaned back against him, her head resting on his shoulder as their hands continued to work the increasingly pliant material.
“It’s making quite... evocative sounds,” she observed, turning her head to meet his gaze.
“Clay can be very sensual,” he agreed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Responsive. Yielding when handled properly.”
His hands moved from the clay to her waist, fingers leaving damp prints on the fabric of her apron. “I’m finding it hard to focus on pottery,” he admitted.
“Really?” Morgan feigned surprise. “I can’t imagine why.”
In response, Archer’s clay-damp fingers tugged at the top of her apron, rearranging it so the fabric bunched between her breasts, revealing more while still technically covering her. “There,” he murmured, satisfaction evident in his voice. “A better view.”
His hands returned to the wheel, arms brushing deliberately against the sides of her breasts as he reached around her. Morgan inhaled sharply at the contact, her body responding instantly to his touch.
