Chapter 24
“I think that may be my new favorite bar,” I say to Reeve as we cross the street toward his condo. There is a paper bag dangling from my right hand, inside of which is a white takeout container with the remaining scraps of the best nachos I have ever eaten.
“I would have thought that honor would have gone to the Legion,” Reeve says as he opens the front door to his building with his key fob.
“The Legion is less of a bar and more of a lifestyle choice.” I smile at the concierge, who gives me a bored look before returning to something far more interesting on his phone.
We head toward the elevator, the soles of my boots making squeaking sounds on the marble floors.
“This is a very fancy building,” I tell Reeve as he presses the elevator button and the doors slide open.
We step inside. When the doors close, they shut out all the sounds of the outside world, making it even more apparent that it’s just me and Reeve in a very small space.
“So,” he says, stepping toward me, and I notice a hint of cologne that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
“Your interview tomorrow is at ten, right?”
I am quickly reminded of the reason I’m here visiting him. Still, just as quickly, that thought seems to disappear as his hand slides inside my coat and comes to rest on my hip, his fingers magically finding that tiny strip of exposed skin between my sweater and my jeans.
“I’m guessing you’ll want to get there early?” He leans in, pressing the softest kiss to the side of my neck, and although I know he just asked me a question, I am far more concerned with how I can make that happen again.
“Hmmm.” My fingers trace the hem of his coat until they find the lapels and tug him closer.
“So?” He kisses me again. In that exact spot, giving me exactly what I want.
“I can’t think when you kiss me like that,” I tell him. “It does something to my brain. Makes it very hard to concentrate.”
The elevator bell dings. Reeve and his lips pull away. I recover just enough brain cells to tell him, “Nine. I want to be there early, just in case.”
We step into the hallway and walk toward his door, but he stops and presses me against the wall just before we reach it.
His hand cups my chin, and his hips slide against mine, and my brain is stripped of all thought except the sweep of his tongue and the way his thigh presses between my legs.
My hands roam down his back until my thumbs hook the waistband of his pants, but as they move toward the buckle of his belt, he pulls back.
“Why are we stopping?” I ask, slowly opening my eyes.
“That was our kiss good night,” he says. “Because if I kiss you again after I open that door, I’m not going to stop, and you need to be up early.”
He plants another kiss. This one is softer and sweeter than the last, but when my hands reach for his waist, needing his body closer, he stops me, trapping my hands between our bodies.
“This is killing me. I want you to know that. But you need to get to bed.”
He kisses me on the forehead before pushing away from the wall, unlocking his front door, and holding it open.
I watch him for a moment, not sure if he is serious. When he doesn’t budge, I concede, walking into his foyer, where I shed my boots and coat.
He waits for me at the bottom of the stairs.
As I pass him on my way up, I search his face for any hint that this is all one big joke. But there’s nothing. His hands stay in the safety of his pants pockets until I’m halfway up the stairs, and only then does he climb up after me.
I stop when I reach the top step, arms crossed, blocking his way like a petulant toddler.
“You’re really sending me to bed?”
He pauses three steps down. “It’s a big day. You’re going to want a clear head.”
He’s not wrong. But I want something very different right now.
I try a different tactic. “I’m not tired yet. Are you at least going to tuck me in?”
“I am going nowhere near your room,” he says. “In fact, I’m not moving until you’re safely behind that door.”
I eye the three closed doors in front of me, almost certain that the center one is mine.
“Is that another bedroom?” I point at the third door. The only one Reeve didn’t show me on my tour earlier.
“In theory, yes,” he answers. “But…” His voice trails momentarily, and I hear him climb the two steps between us. His warm hand finds the small of my back. “If you’re not tired, I guess I can show you. But please don’t judge until I can explain.”
I plant my feet, suddenly wondering what I’m walking into. “Do I want to know what’s in there?”
Reeve passes me and crosses the hallway, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “It’s not weird. Actually, it is a little weird…but I’m guessing less so than what is going on in your head right now. Come on.”
He pushes the door open. I follow him inside, unsure of what I’m about to see.
I definitely don’t expect shelves filled with bowls, plates, and mugs. Rows and rows of figurines and vases.
In the center of the room is a black leather stool. Beside it is a small square table with what looks like a massive bowl on top covered in a claylike substance.
“Is that a pottery wheel?” I ask, putting it all together.
Reeve sits on the stool and presses a pedal on the floor with his foot. The bowl comes to life, whirring in a circle.
“You asked me once how I got into art, and I guess this is the answer. I started throwing pottery when I was in my second year at Queens. I had some anxiety issues, and my therapist suggested it as a way to relax, and I’ve been hooked ever since.”
I examine the shelves again in a new light. “Did you make all of these?”
Reeve nods to the shelf behind him. “Almost everything on that one is mine. I kind of rotate pieces in and out, depending on how I feel about them. The rest of the pieces in here are ones I’ve collected over the years. Just stuff I’ve seen and liked that makes me happy.”
I step over to one of the shelves, my eyes attracted to a tall vase with a forest scene painted on the outside.
“This reminds me a little of West Lake.” I pick it up to show him.
He takes it from my hand. “It should. That’s one of Marcus’s.”
My fingers run along the edge of the shelf. The pieces he’s collected are truly beautiful. “Do you ever think about going back to work in a gallery?”
“All the time.” He stares for a moment at the vase in his hands before meeting my eyes. “But what I’d love to do is open my own gallery at some point.”
“Really?” I can suddenly picture it. “You should do it.”
“Maybe someday.” He sets the vase down carefully back in its place and then pulls a white Tupperware from one of the shelves, opens it, and takes out a plastic bag.
“Want to try?” He rolls down the plastic to reveal a large mound of rust-colored clay.
Taking a piece of what looks like wire, he cuts a grapefruit-sized clump off and sets it on the table.
“Come here.” He slides off the stool, refits the plastic over the remaining clay, and returns the box to the shelf.
“It’s easy.” He pulls out the stool and waits. When I don’t move, he holds out his hand. “Come on. I promise. I’ll show you.”
I slide into the stool, slightly more curious than nervous. Reeve kneads the clay a few times before setting it into the center of the bowl.
He steps behind me, placing his hands on top of mine and guiding them to the clay, which feels cool to the touch.
“I need to add a little water.” He dips his fingers into a small white bowl on the corner of the table. Cupping the water in his palm, he drips it over mine, making the clay soft and slimy.
“I’m going to turn the wheel on. Are you ready?”
“No,” I answer, my stomach suddenly nervous and fluttery.
Reeve’s hands slowly slide down my forearms, then cover mine as his breath brushes my ear. “Don’t worry, I got you.”
As his foot presses the pedal, I hold my breath, and the wheel again rolls to life.
The whir, the heat, and the way my skin buzzes beneath his fingers make any natural talent I may have secretly possessed disappear. I squeeze my hands too tight. The clay beneath them spins into a tall cylinder and then flops to the side.
“Oh no, I ruined it already.”
I can feel the shake of Reeve’s quiet laugh at my back. “Nothing is ever ruined with clay. It’s all about the process. You figure things out as you go and sometimes the figuring out is the point.” He squishes the toppled cylinder back into a ball.
“I get why this is therapy.” I take the clay back into my hands. “Do you do this a lot? The pottery, I mean.”
There is a slight hesitation before he answers. “With my job…yeah. I’m in here all the time. Here—” He grabs a second stool from along the wall and pulls it up behind me. He sits down, his legs straddling mine, knees pressing ever so gently into the sides of my thighs.
“We may need a little more water.” He reaches for the white bowl again, his chest pressing into my back, his other hand grazing my hip bone as he leans.
“Place your hands on top again, but this time with just the lightest touch.”
I do as he asks as his fingertips graze the back of my wrists. “I’m going to hit the pedal again. Don’t move. Just get a feel forit.”
The bowl begins to whirl again, but I keep my hands lightly on the clay, barely touching it, just as Reeve instructed.
“Okay.” His lips brush the side of my ear as he leans closer. “Now, just the smallest bit of pressure. Take your time. You’re in control here.”
I’m not.
I am desperately trying not to think about sex or the strength of his hands—the confident way his body guides mine exactly how he wants me.
I close my eyes, but it only heightens the sensations: the hairs on my neck standing on end, the tingles that have traveled from my earlobe all the way down to my belly.
The clay beneath my hands starts to shift, molding into a cylindrical shape.
“Good girl,” Reeve coaxes, his hands slipping farther up my forearms, giving me more control. “Just keep that perfect pressure. You want it to stay nice and thick. Just like that.”
My head suddenly floods with thoughts that are not pottery-related.
“For a guy who seemed very adamant about not having any sexy activity within these walls tonight, you are making very interesting word choices.”
Reeve laughs, his chest pressing against my back. “I’m sorry, I got a little carried away. Do you think you’re ready for the next step?”
The deepness of his voice reverberates all the way to my core. I’d agree to almost anything at this point.
“Place your thumbs in the center.” His hands glide over mine, easing my thumbs into the middle of the clay. “And give it just a little more pressure. Right there. You’ve got it.”
His nose brushes against my neck, and his thighs press against mine. My head falls back. He turns, his lip brushing that sensitive spot just below my ear. He kisses it—and any remaining concentration slips along with my hands, which flatten my creation into a rust-colored pancake.
“Ahhhhh!” I stare down at the messy brown lump still spinning on the wheel.
“That was my fault,” Reeve says, kissing me one last time before pushing back his stool.
The wheel begins to slow. My head clears just enough to notice the curve of Reeve’s pants as he clears away the scraps of mangled clay. The sight gives me some consolation that at least I was not the only one affected.
He opens the door to a small powder room painted a soft buttery yellow, with just a toilet and sink.
Turning on the faucet with his elbows, he scrubs his hands quickly and then waits for me to do the same.
As I rub my arms with the soapy water, I half expect him to slip behind me like he did at the wheel, sliding his hands down mine, pinning me between the hardness of his body and the sink; however, my soapy sex fantasy is interrupted when he clears his throat and hands me a towel.
“I didn’t realize it’s past eleven already. You should head to bed. Is there anything else you need?”
There is one thing I very much need right now, but Reeve does not seem to want to give it.
“I think I’m good.”
He nods, looking at me in a way that makes me wonder if I may have telepathically communicated that last thought.
“Get some rest,” he finally says, his voice suddenly hoarse. “You have an important day tomorrow, and then it’s going to be a very late night.”