“Well, use your man’s muscles as inspiration, then. Biceps, chest, and from what I saw when he walked in, a nice ass too.”
I burst into laughter, promptly fucking up my vase beyond all help because my hands were shaking. Howell’s cheeks turned bright red, something I wouldn’t have thought possible. He seemed so unflappable, but the jokes had broken through his tough exterior.
Clara wasn’t done cracking dirty jokes. “Remember, the clay is just like a lover. If it’s not wet enough, it won’t be much fun. And if it’s too dry, well…” She wiggled her eyebrows.
I almost snorted my sip of wine through my nose. My god, she was hilarious.
Clara patted Howell’s shoulder. “Sorry, dear. My mouth gets the better of me sometimes.”
He shook his head, laughing. “Yeah, I can tell you’re real sorry.”
She winked at me, and I loved her for it. I gathered my clay to create another clump and start again. “This is so much fun,” I said to Howell. “Best date ever.”
The way his face lit up, I would’ve thought I’d told him he won the lottery.
“I’m having the best time too.” He nodded at his vase. “Though this has to be the ugliest vase I’ve ever seen.”
I stifled a chuckle as Howell’s fingers, so sure and steady in the wilderness, fumbled with the unyielding clay. The lump on his wheel splayed out like an abstract expression of confusion rather than the elegant vase he’d intended. With each spin, it morphed into a lopsided hat, followed by a caricature of a mountain range. “It’s certainly…unique.”
“It’s hideous.”
“Original? One of a kind?”
“I think it might be a new art form. Postmodern dysfunction.” A twinkle lit up his eyes. His hands were a mess, and clay was smeared like war paint across his cheeks where he had pushed his hair back.
“Keep at it, boys,” Clara said. “Remember, it’s all about the journey, not just the destination.”
That seemed to have become the theme of my trip, a message I’d do well to remember.
I gently spun my wheel again, holding my hands the way Clara had shown. Molding wet clay was so much harder than it looked. She did it with such ease, making perfect shapes in mere minutes, while I struggled to form an evenly round base.
Clara’s suggestion to imagine Howell’s muscles was easy. His biceps were a work of art, even more drool-worthy in the tight shirt he was wearing. Hell, it looked like it would rip if he flexedtoo hard, and my stomach did a little dance. What would it be like to run my hands over those muscles?
His skin would be smooth on his biceps but rougher on his chest, with all the chest hair. He did have a nice, round ass. Clara had spotted that correctly, and I sighed at the thought of putting my hands on it and squeezing. Would he be into ass play? I loved it, both giving and receiving. Rimming was one of my favorite things to do, and even more when a man had an ass like that.
Was Howell a top or a bottom? Or vers? I wasn’t opposed to topping, but I preferred to bottom, especially with a strong man like Howell. It had been too long since I’d had a good, hard dicking, and funnily enough, my hole twitched at the thought.
With each press and squeeze, I imagined the firmness of Howell’s chest, the bulge of his biceps, the gentle taper of his waist. My fingers danced around the clay, coaxing it into the strong lines of a masculine form—each touch a silent ode to the man who had unexpectedly stirred something deep within me.
“That’s beautiful, Onno,” Clara said.
Wow. I stared at what my hands had created while my thoughts had been elsewhere. Somehow, I had managed to shape the clay into a perfect vase. The base was wide, but it transformed into a smaller section, followed by another wider circle and a thinner one on top. How the ever-loving fuck had I pulled that off?
“Time’s up, everyone!” Clara announced, pulling us back from our private bubble of amusement. “Let’s start cleaning up.”
We rinsed our hands under the tap, the water turning murky. Howell’s vase—or what could generously be called a vase—sat on the bench, looking like it had survived an apocalypse.
“Yours has character.” I gestured with a wet hand, flicking droplets in its direction as if baptism by water could consecrate its oddity.
“And yours has muscles.” Howell nudged me with his elbow. “You sure you weren’t sculpting your dream man?”
“I did exactly what Clara told me to and imagined running my hands over your muscles,” I said without thinking, and the whole room exploded into laughter. Howell took the ensuing ribbing in good humor, though his cheeks were red.
Our eyes met, and for a moment, everything fell away—the chatter of people, the clatter of tools, the outside world. Oh, I was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
As we walked back to the truck, I took his hand and laced our fingers together. “Thank you. That was so much fun.”
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. My stomach fluttered at that old-fashioned gesture. “I had the best time. And your vase looked freaking amazing.”
