Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
RICCI
Fuck. I’ve ruined her first batch of art. I should’ve texted, should’ve warned her somehow, but I didn’t think. I just saw her message about the brunch and a sudden, crazy need to see her in person took over everything else.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “You’re going to have to start those over. My fault.”
She brushes her hands on the apron and looks at me with those green eyes that always hit me somewhere deep. “It’s okay,” she says softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Really. It’s fine.”
I search her face, looking for a sign that she’s upset at losing her first pieces, but she just looks…
happy. The tension that had been coiled tight in my chest loosens a fraction.
“I saw your text about the brunch,” I tell her, wiping my hands on my jacket.
“And decided to drop in and see how you were doing and answer in person.” I pause, rubbing the back of my neck.
“I’m afraid I’m not usually in the habit of announcing my arrival.
The fewer people who know where I am, the better. ”
She nods, cheeks still flushed from the shock of seeing me at her studio, but her eyes stay warm on mine. “It’s okay. It’s good to see you,” she says, and this time I believe her. The way she’s looking at me, it’s clear she’s glad I’m here.
I try not to stare too obviously at the way the gingham sundress clings to her when she moves. “Do you want to grab some lunch with me?”
“Yeah,” she says, voice soft. “I’d like that.”
She cleans up, and we step out into the busy street together, the late afternoon sun warm on our skin, the city noise wrapping around us.
It feels good, walking beside her like this, her hand brushing mine every few steps.
Nice. Normal in a way I’ve never had. We don’t talk much at first, just walk side by side, but the silence is comfortable and easy.
A little bistro catches her eye a couple blocks down.
It is small and neatly tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop.
It has outdoor tables and red and white striped awnings.
Inside, the place smells of roasted coffee.
We order at the counter. Prosciutto and mozzarella panini for me, grilled vegetable and goat cheese for her, plus a couple of cold San Pellegrino bottles.
I pay, and we carry our food to a quiet table by the window.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
That gingham sundress, a soft yellow, white check thing, hugs her body in all the right ways.
The thin straps rest on her shoulders, and every time she leans forward to take a bite, the neckline dips just enough to expose the soft swell of her breasts.
My mouth goes dry. I want to lean across the table, tug that dress down, take a nipple into my mouth and suck it until she’s squirming and gasping my name.
Instantly, I’m hard under the table, cock straining against my zipper.
I shift in my seat, forcing the image out of my head, but it lingers…
hot, insistent, and making my pulse thud heavy in my throat.
The conversation is light at first. Then I set my sandwich down. “About the brunch, you can say whatever you want. It really doesn’t matter. I married you because I wanted to. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
Her eyes soften with relief, but I can still see some worry lingering in that small crease between her brows. I reach across the table and brush my thumb over the back of her hand.
“Why are you still worried?” I ask quietly.
She hesitates, then tells me about the call from her sister. Her dad’s new debts, the beating, the guilt trip. I listen without interrupting, jaw tight, watching the way her shoulders tense as she speaks.
When she finishes, I shake my head slowly.
“Don’t extend help to people who don’t want to help themselves,” I say, keeping my voice even but firm.
“They’ll use guilt to make you feel bad, but they clearly don’t care about you.
They never did. Blood doesn’t make them family. That much I can guarantee.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, then nods, something easing in her expression. “Yeah,” she whispers. “You’re right.”
The tension fades, and we finish our food talking about her pottery. When we step back outside, the afternoon light seems more mellow. We walk back to the studio hand in hand; her fingers laced through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
As we reach the entrance of the studio, she stops and looks up at me with a soft, hopeful expression. “Do you want to try your hand at making something?” she asks, nodding toward the studio. “Just for a minute?”
Making pottery has never crossed my mind in my life. Not once. The idea of sitting at a wheel, shaping wet clay into something that will inevitably be useless to me feels completely foreign, quite ridiculous for a man like me. But then I look at her.
Her eyes are bright with a quiet, hopeful excitement, and that hits me straight in the chest. The way she’s looking at me — soft, expectant, like she’s sharing a secret part of herself and hoping I’ll step into it with her — makes it impossible to say no.
I feel that pull again, deep and undeniable, the same one that’s been dragging me toward her since the beginning.
What the hell? I can make something useless this afternoon.
“Sure,” I say, my voice rough around the edges. “Why not?”
Breaking into a huge grin, she takes my hand and pulls me through the door.
She leads me straight to her wheel near the window.
I sit down on the stool, feeling utterly awkward and absurd in my tailored suit.
Fuck it, the fabric is already smudged with streaks of clay from the broken pieces earlier, anyway.
I look up at her expectantly. My shoulders feel too broad for this space, my hands too big, too rough for something this delicate.
But she doesn’t laugh at me. Not even a little.
She just moves behind me with that quiet grace of hers, leaning over my shoulder until her body presses lightly against my back.
The warmth of her seeps through my jacket, and I have to fight the urge to close my eyes.
Then she places her hand over mine on the fresh lump of clay.
The moment her fingers cover mine, slick, warm, steady, everything else disappears.
It’s too sensual. The wet slip of the clay under our joined palms, cool and yielding, the slow, hypnotic spin of the wheel beneath us.
Her body is right there, pressed softly against my back, her breath warm and steady on the side of my neck.
I can feel every small shift of her as she leans in closer, guiding me.
My pulse kicks hard, heavy and insistent, and I’m suddenly aware of every point where we touch — her chest brushing my shoulder, her thigh against the side of the low stool, the faint floral scent of her skin mixing with the raw earthiness of the clay.
I get lost in her.
Something starts to take shape under our hands, rising slowly, walls thinning and lifting with each carnal press.
I watch it, but my focus keeps slipping to the way her fingers move with mine.
She is goddess-like in her calm confidence, teaching me without words.
When I press too hard, the side collapses in on itself with a soft, wet slump.
She lets out a soft, amused laugh right by my ear, the sound low and warm, vibrating through me.
“Focus,” she admonishes, but there’s no bite in it, just a gentle breath.
I look up at her.
Our eyes meet, and I get completely lost in those pools of green.
She’s so fucking beautiful, so alive, the late light catching in her hair and turning it gold around her face.
In that moment it hits me again — hard, deep, undeniable.
I’m in love with this woman. The moment has been waiting deep inside me for years, and now it is finally clicking into place.
A slow smirk tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
“If we can mold your breasts,” I murmur, voice low and rough against the quiet hum of the wheel, “then I’m sure I’ll get the hang of this.”
She bursts out laughing, the sound bubbling out of her and filling the studio like sunlight. I lean in, one hand still on the clay, and kiss her. She melts voluptuously into it, her fingers tightening over mine on the clay, her body pressing closer against my back.
Eventually, somehow, we manage to shape a decent bowl together. She sits back, cheeks flushed, breath a touch uneven, and looks down at what we made.
“You’re first bowl,” she says softly, voice warm with something that sounds a lot like happiness. “I’ll get this fired in the kiln and bring it home to you when it’s ready.”
I nod and imagine it sitting on a shelf in our place, something we made together, something that’s ours.