Chapter 5
5
ONNO
C lara was a riot. She was a seventysomething woman with wild curly hair that cascaded around her shoulders like a lion’s mane. With her kaftan bursting with psychedelic colors, she looked like she’d never left the seventies behind her and was now living her best life making gorgeous pottery, cracking dirty jokes, and spinning wildly entertaining tales. Originally from South Carolina, she’d never lost her Southern twang.
“Hope y’all are ready to get your hands dirty.” She sauntered over with a grace that defied her eccentric appearance.
“Absolutely,” Howell said, his deep voice bouncing off the clay-stained walls. “This is Onno, my—uh, we’re here for the class.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” She took his hand in both of hers. “I can already tell you’ve got the hands of an artist, darling.”
“Or at least a farmhand,” Howell quipped.
“Ooh, I love a man who can handle some serious plowing.” Clara winked, and I burst out laughing.
Howell’s cheeks tinged pink. “Clara, you’re terrible.”
“Terrible, maybe, but never boring.” Clara sashayed back to the front of the room, where a row of wheels awaited our touch. “Now, let’s get started. Pottery is like making love—it’s messy, it’s passionate, and if you do it right, you come out with something beautiful.”
She also served amazing hors d’oeuvres and a delicious, bold red wine. An hour into our two-hour class, I was a little tipsy, had pain in my sides from laughing, and was well on my way to creating the ugliest crooked vase on the planet. The only vase that was worse than mine was Howell’s, and he laughed about it harder than anyone else.
We had a fun group of people—ten in total—and like us, most were new at pottery, but everyone approached it with enthusiasm and a good sense of humor. Once we shaped our wet clay on the wheel, the phallic jokes were inevitable, and the hilarity rose. This was the most fun I’d had in months.
“Move your hands like you’re following the shape of a woman,” Clara said to me. “Boobs, small waist, round hips.”
I snorted. “I’m gay, honey. Women don’t do it for me.”
“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 flexed too 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.”
“Trust me, I’m as surprised as everyone else.”
“It tells you that you need to keep trying new things. You may not be good at all of them, but you could discover some hidden talents.”
Wasn’t he the sweetest for saying that? “Maybe, but I doubt I’ll ever be good at kayaking.”
“I could take you in a two-person kayak…”
“You mean you’d do all the work, and all I’d have to do is sit and look pretty?” I fanned myself dramatically. “I’m sure I can do that.”
He grinned. “Something like that. Unless you don’t like the water.”
“I love it. I’m a good swimmer. We all learn as kids in the Netherlands. Since we have so many rivers, lakes, creeks, you name it, being able to swim is considered crucial, so everyone learns in school.”
“That’s amazing. Every year, people drown because they end up in the water and can’t swim.”
“Exactly. I used to swim all the time, but…” Even thinking of Gerard made my chest contract. “My ex didn’t like it, so I stopped.”
Howell squeezed my hand and opened the passenger door of his truck for me. He gave me a little boost to get in and closed the door. He looked pensive as he buckled up and started the engine. “If you enjoy different things than your partner, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do them anymore. Lori-Ann, my ex-wife, loved going to flea markets and yard sales, which are my absolute nightmare, but I still wanted her to go. So she went with her friends while I went fishing with the boys, which she hated. There should be room for the things you love, shouldn’t there?”
He was so right. Unfortunately, it had taken me way too long to realize how much I’d given up for Gerard. Bit by bit, I had disappeared to make him happy, and in the end, it still hadn’t been enough. In hindsight, it was all so easy to see, but when I’d been in the middle of it, his arguments that if I truly loved him, I wouldn’t do things he didn’t like had sounded normal and persuasive.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” Howell said softly.
“Just bad memories, is all. Not your fault.”
“Are you hungry? I’d planned for us to get dinner, but Clara served a lot of really yummy hors d’oeuvres, so I’m not sure how hungry you are.”
“I could eat a little, but not a whole meal.”
“How about some ice cream? There’s an ice cream shop here with the best Italian ice cream.”
Ice cream? Now there was a man after my own heart. “Yes, please.”
Hand in hand, we walked to the ice cream parlor, its vintage sign promising cool delights. Stepping inside was like wandering into a childhood dream, lured by the scent of sugar and waffle cones and the rows of vibrant flavors nestled in their frosty beds.
“Rocky Road for me,” Howell said with the confidence of a man who knew his pleasures. His choice sparked no surprise. He was the embodiment of rugged terrain and sweet surprises.
“Strawberry, please,” I said. The girl behind the counter, with her pierced nose and bubblegum-pink hair, flashed us an approving smile as she scooped our selections onto cones.
We found a corner booth, the vinyl squeaking beneath us as we settled in. The first bite of my ice cream was a burst of pure, creamy delight, and judging by the look on Howell’s face, his was just as satisfying.
“How long will you be staying?” Howell asked. “I forgot to ask.”
“The plan was six weeks, of which three have already passed. So only three more weeks.”
The words hung suspended above our half-eaten treats, and a bitter pang of sorrow mingled with the sweetness on my tongue. It was a strange concoction, this blend of joy and impending loss, and I searched Howell’s face for clues as to what he was thinking.
Only three more weeks. Was that even enough to build anything with Howell? Maybe enough for a hookup, but not for anything more. Not that I was opposed to sex with this man. Hell no. If he asked me to go to his place after, I was totally on board.
But I wanted more with him…and he gave me the impression he wanted that too. Otherwise, he would’ve asked for a hookup instead of a date. So, where did that leave us? Was three weeks sufficient to get to know each other and see if we had something real?
Howell paused his hand midair, the cone forgotten, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face like shadows cast by firelight.
“Three weeks,” he echoed softly, setting his cone on the napkin-strewn table. His fingers found mine atop the cold, sticky surface and enveloped them in a grip that was both firm and trembling ever so slightly. “That’s… It’s not long.”
The warmth of his touch seeped into my skin, chasing away the cold dread that had settled in my bones. The concern in his gaze held me captive, his handsome features etched with lines of determination.
“We can make it count though, right?” His voice was low, a tender rumble with an undercurrent of urgency. “I mean, we’ve got today and every day after until you have to leave.”
My throat tightened, a lump forming as I nodded. “I’d like that,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I want to make the most of every second.”
Howell brushed his thumb over my knuckles in a gesture that felt like a promise. A simple touch, but it held the power of unspoken words.
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll pack as much fun into these three weeks as possible. Hikes, movies, dinners…hell, even more pottery if you’re up for it.”
Joy bloomed inside me. He wanted to spend time with me, wanted to be with me as much as I longed to hang out with him. “Very much looking forward to that.”
I wanted to spend every waking moment with this man.
When we got back to Howell’s truck, it had cooled a bit, but the warmth radiating from Howell was enough to keep the chill at bay. Night had fallen, and I glanced up at the sky, where stars twinkled like diamonds across an ink-black canvas.
“I’ve never seen so many stars,” I whispered. “Beautiful.”
“Sure is.” Howell followed my gaze. “But not as beautiful as you.”
Howell’s hand, rough and warm, found its way to my cheek, and I leaned into his touch. His thumb brushing my skin sent a shiver down my spine. “May I…?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My heart hammered as Howell closed the distance between us. His lips met mine, gentle, questioning, as if testing the waters. But when I kissed him back, something ignited deep within us both.
We deepened the kiss, passionate and intense, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Howell responded in kind, encircling my waist and pressing me against the side of his truck. The hunger in his kiss, the yearning, matched my own. His beard scratched my face softly, a new sensation.
Our tongues swirled, the aftertaste of his Rocky Road mingling with my strawberry. He gently sucked my bottom lip, then surged back into my mouth. God, the man could kiss. I’d forgotten how good kissing could be, how erotic.
Howell’s body was solid and warm, grounding me in the present. I ran my hands over his chest, then slipped them underneath his shirt and caressed his back. Beneath my fingertips, his muscles rippled. Muscles I had jokingly molded clay after earlier in the evening, and I chuckled softly.
He pulled away, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against mine. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” My smile widened. “Just…happy.”
“Good,” Howell said, his voice husky. “Because I plan on making you laugh a lot more.”
And as we stood there, in the quiet embrace of the night with only the faint hum of the town around us, I believed him.