Chapter 15
Elliott ghosts Fern.
Elliott taught Fern to wedge and center the clay, then he threw a sample bowl while she observed. When he took his foot off the pedal and his piece slowed to a stop, he bumped her thigh with his elbow and looked up. “Ready to try?”
With a happy hop, Fern nodded and sat at his second wheel. She wet her hands in the rinse bowl, poised them in the air over her lump of clay, and looked over at the station he’d just vacated.
“Ever seen the movie Ghost?” he asked from behind her.
Dropping her head back, she looked up with twitching lips. “Yeah.”
“I’m going to ghost you,” Elliott said, aiming for smoothness. But when he took his seat behind her and scooted in close, the other implication of his words tugged his lips down. “The, uh, movie way. Not the disappear-and-ignore-you way.”
Her wet hand landed on his knee as light laughter flowed from her lips, sending happiness rippling through him. He laid a hand on hers, and with his other, grasped her thigh.
Softly, like she was fighting fear, Fern asked, “Does that mean you’re done running away from me, Elliott Fitzpatrick?”
“I think I might be,” he rumbled.
“Good. Because I can’t keep doing this in fits and starts. It’s too stressful.” She relaxed, her back pressing fleetingly against his chest before she sprang forward again and said, “Teach me before we get distracted.”
Laughing, he obliged, ready to “get distracted” with her, but even more thrilled to share his pottery.
After she got the hang of the wheel, he pulled back to watch her work.
“Noa explained some stuff yesterday,” Fern blurted.
“Oh, did she?” His thighs tensed around hers, and she squirmed, her braids brushing his shirt. “What about? Flowers? Haircuts? Something more exciting?”
“You already know?” She jabbed his knee with a clay-coated finger, leaving a circular spot in her wake.
Chuckling, he slid an arm around her waist and leaned in to rest his chin on her shoulder. “I asked her to explain some things.”
“Too scared to do it yourself?” Gently pinching the rim of her chunky little pot with her thumb and forefinger, she pulled the clay upward, expanding it into something new.
“Definitely.”
When she laughed, he craned his neck forward to press a kiss to her flushed cheek.
“Elliott?”
“Mhm?”
“I keep thinking about how your bear chased me, and you said he wanted to bite me, to mark me.”
His next “mhm” came out more strained than the first.
Pressing a wooden rib against the outside of her bowl and a firm finger to the inside, Fern closed up the wide opening, turning it into a compact little pot. She was a natural. “Noa told me bonding can start one of two ways.”
“Mhm.” Tighter still.
“Is this a beauty blender?” Fern held up a pink sponge from the array he’d offered her.
“Yeah. Works well to smooth the inside.”
“Got it. So, since your bear wanted to mark me as his...”
“Mhm.” He was back on his bullshit.
Her hands shook a bit, warping the edge of her pot. “Does that mean we’re potential mates?”
“Yes,” he lied—and didn’t feel bad about it at all.
Potential mates was a great starting point.
It came with a lot less pressure than true mates for someone who hadn’t grown up exposed to the concept.
Fern may have told Noa it was “romantic,” but he knew from experience: Fate assigning you one person could be a little freaky if you thought about it too long.
She applied too much pressure trying to correct her divot, and the wall of her pot flopped in on itself.
Fern didn’t seem to care, though. She shoved back into him, rubbing her forehead along his jaw while she leaned her head on his shoulder.
“That’s why you haven’t put your enormous cock in me yet? ”
His fingertips, covered with drying clay, dug into her hips as he groaned. “Fern. Yes, that’s why. It would trigger bonding.”
“What if we weren’t potential mates?”
“Honestly?”
“Wait—” She leaned forward, adding a fingerprint to her unmoving pot. “No. I don’t want to know.”
Curling over her back, he splayed a palm across her stomach and teased, “Oh, I was going to say I’d have fucked you on every surface in my house by now. But I’d be feeling guilty as shit about it, because things could never work between me and a non-potential mate.”
She snorted out a laugh and nuzzled his cheek before whispering, “I was wondering... Does that mean you think there’s potential here?”
“It does.”
“Okay.” She sat up straight as a board. “I’m done with ceramics now.”
“I take it you’re not ready to leave, though?”
“Not at all.”
He scooted his stool back, and Fern jumped up, rounding on him and grabbing his biceps with dirty hands. “You’re going to carry me inside, and I expect to find two muddy handprints on the ass of my pants in the morning.”
“I can do that.”
With his bear purring pleasantly, Elliott popped to his feet and hoisted Fern into his arms. Her long legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking above his butt while he palmed hers, making sure those handprints went right where she requested them.
Desire and the sweetest little gasps and giggles radiated from Fern as he carried her inside and straight back to his master bedroom.
Setting her on her feet beside his bed, he lifted her chin and leaned in. Their noses brushed as he angled his head to the side, claiming her soft lips.
Fern grabbed the sides of his face and held him away for a second, ardor filling her gaze as she stared into his eyes. She said nothing, but she smirked and pulled him in again, her next kiss harder, needier, demanding.
His true mate. He moaned—a little—at the thought alone. She was it for him. Endgame. Perfectly made to slot into his life, and he into hers. Mating wouldn’t come without compromises, of course, but when the time was right, he wanted to be with Fern Walsh.
He just needed to get up the courage to go for it, to admit the full truth: true mates.
“Should we shower or something?” she asked softly, plucking at the buttons of his sage green shirt.
“Yes,” he said too quickly, taken with the idea of stripping her down and soaping her up.
“Do I smell?”
“Only good.”
“Well, why’d you say ‘yes’ like that?” she asked, tone a little sassy.
He gave her a stern look, and with a smirk, she stepped away to let him handle his shirt while she pulled hers off, revealing rosy nipples beaded behind a lacy white bra.
“Fuck, Fern. You’re gorgeous.”
“Same to you.” Her nails raked from the middle of his exposed chest down, down, down to pull at the tie on his shorts. He missed their pointy tips, but she still scratched him en route, raising little bumps across his naked skin.
Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he moved her hand away. “Focus on yourself, woman. I want you naked.”
Gasping in faux outrage, Fern grabbed her chest, rolling her nipples between her fingers while he, fighting against going feral, tore off his shorts and stepped toward her, fully nude.
She backed away and slipped her hand down the front of her pants, that tease. The bumps of her knuckles pressed out through the fabric, coming and going as she stroked her center, out of sight, showing him everything and nothing at the same time.
“Fern Middle-Name Walsh, take off your clothes.”
He caught her off guard with that one, and a waterfall of laughter spilled from her wide mouth. She lifted her fingers to her face, but her grin still peeked out around her hand.
“It’s ‘P,’ just the letter. Fern P. Walsh.”
He wanted to ask about that, but there wasn’t time. She was too captivating, too divine. Something akin to cute aggression, but on a soul-consuming scale, shoved Elliott forward.
With lips and hands, he explored her, and she grabbed his hips, whispering, “Undress me yourself, Elliott Middle-Name Fitzpatrick.”
He growled, unwilling to tell her it was Patrick and risk another laughing fit. They needed to focus.
She whimpered when he unhooked her bra, sliding it off one arm, then the other, before dropping to his knees.
Kissing her breasts, her ribcage, her smooth stomach, he freed her from her leggings and hoped his actions conveyed just how precious she was.
Pressing his head against her ribs, he looked down and breathed in, taking the moment to connect with his bear and remind him to behave.
This was not the night to broach being true mates. There would be no biting, no moving into the bond. The goal was to enjoy her, get to know her better… and get her scent all over his home until he could convince her to move in.
His bear clacked his teeth, and Elliott hoped to fuck he could trust the beast.
They showered quickly, not even bothering to wet their hair.
Elliott did spend longer than necessary rubbing his soapy hands all over her perfectly round butt.
He didn’t feel bad, though, because she returned the favor.
With affections running hot, he dried quickly and impatiently waited for Fern to finish up.
Turning from the towel hooks, he found her with her leg up on the shower bench, one braid swinging past her raised knee, the other down her back as she dried her calf. Her pussy, rosy and fresh, winked at him beneath her lifted thigh. His cock twitched in response.
“Like what you see?” She laughed, clearly catching his movement.
“Do you?” Palms open at his sides, Elliott offered himself up for perusal.
Her towel hit the floor with a thwap, and she slunk toward him, a playful glint in her eye as she ogled his naked body. Her palm met his hip, and she pushed him to the side.
“Nope.” She sashayed on through to his bedroom, pert ass swaying.
His bear took that as an open opportunity to play, thumping around inside Elliott and urging him to chase after her. Lucky for the beast, that’s precisely what he intended to do.
Catching up by the foot of the bed, he gave her butt a frisky swat, wrapped her braids up in his fist, and tugged her head back while growling, “Say that again.”