Chapter 58 #2
“Quit getting in your head about it,” he says with a low chuckle that tightens my core for reasons unknown to me. “You don’t have to get this right the first, second, third, or fourth time. There’s no rush and no need for perfection. Just let your mind wander and fall into the movement.”
“Easier said than done,” I grunt out.
He shifts so he’s seated with his arms outstretched, resting over mine, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Is it okay if I show you like this?” he asks, his voice low and husky, his warm breath catching the side of my neck as it caresses my skin and goose bumps rise along my flesh.
“Mm-hm.” Words evade me as he leans in closer, taking my hands in his and pressing the taut muscles of his chest to my back. This has zero reason to feel as erotic as it does.
He places our hands over the cool, wet clay, my fingers dipping into it, nose scrunching at the sensation.
“Good, now press the pedal,” he whispers against my overheated flesh, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think his lips were wrapped around my clit with how hot my body is becoming.
My foot twitches, pressing down on the pedal, but I’m too lost in the sensation of his body wrapped around mine and the scent of cinnamon on his breath to focus on what I’m doing.
He shifts closer, and I swear I feel the thick ridge of his cock pressing into my back. My eyelids flutter closed as an unfamiliar, all-consuming need burrows into my belly. I press the pedal with too much force, gasping as clay flies off the wheel. “Sorry!” I yelp, cringing at the sight.
“That’s okay,” he says, shaking with laughter as he stands. He walks around the room to pick up more clay, securing us another heap from the bin. My eyes catch on his rock-hard length, tucked into the waistband of his shorts, and my core clenches with need. Fuck.
“Do you often walk around with boners the size of The Shard?” I ask, the words escaping before I can stop them.
He glances down at the offending appendage, shrugging before taking his seat behind me. “Sort of, yeah.”
I flick my gaze over my shoulder at him, levelling him with a questioning stare.
His cheeks flame bright pink, but he keeps his eyes on mine.
“I’ve been forced to live with a hard-on since the very first night I laid eyes on you.
I guess I’ve just gotten used to hiding it, and you hadn’t noticed before,” he explains with an innocent shrug.
I snap back to face the wheel, my ears ringing at his admission. “Is it still okay if I show you the way I had been? We can try a different way if you’re uncom—”
“It’s fine. Let’s start again,” I urge him, desperate to have his arms around me.
We continue like this for several tension-filled minutes, his large body enveloping mine as he talks me through the motions of creating a hole in the centre of the clay, dipping our thumbs into it, and guiding it into the shape we want.
As the heaviness dissipates, I sag against him, allowing him to hold me up as our hands work the clay exactly as he taught me.
“So good,” he praises, a husky whisper against the shell of my ear.
“Would this be the part in one of your smutty romance novels where you’d call me a good girl?”
“You know, Adhira, I’d never taken you for someone with a praise kink, but now, I think I can see it.
” He leans forward, taking up every inch of my space, pressing a hot kiss to my pounding pulse.
His lips trail a path over my neck, and my lips pinch together as I hold my moan captive.
“If it’s any consolation for my misgivings, I happen to think you’re a very good girl. ”
Oh, good God.
“I think you stole my line,” I tell him, keeping my voice as strong as I can manage, but the words come out as a rasp.
“And how is that?” he asks, neither of us noticing that the wheel has stopped, completely absorbed in the moment.
“Because—” I twist in my seat to face him, smirking as I cup his cheek, his eyes growing wide, “you are such a good boy, Elijah. You won’t even punish me for that.” I wipe my clay-covered fingers on his stubble, spring from the stool, and sprint out of the room.
I glance over my shoulder, laughter pouring from my lungs as the shock wears off, and he snaps into action, chasing me around the pottery studio—a place he knows like the back of his hand and I don’t. But that doesn’t stop me from trying.
My eyes catch on a small door at the end of the hall, clay- and paint-covered aprons hanging from it.
His footsteps grow louder behind me, and I fling the door open, rush inside, and pant as I pull it shut.
I fumble for a lock, but before I can click it into place, he’s wrenching the door open and slamming it shut behind him.
“You shouldn’t have done that, sweet girl,” he purrs. I back up, searching for the light switch, but my arse hits a wall, and I trip over something at my feet. He lurches forward, his cool, clay-covered hands slapping against my waist as he presses me against his body.
I can’t see anything, but I feel all of him, and, honestly, a repeat echocardiogram might not be a bad idea, because there’s no way this thumping in my chest is normal.
Without my eyesight in this windowless room, everything else becomes heightened: the press of his forehead against mine, his lips a breath away, his heavy weight against my slight frame.
The concrete wall bites at my back, and my racing heart shifts into a sprint as my eyelids flutter closed in anticipation.
My breath hitches as his hands slide up the sides of my waist, so large they cover most of my skin.
“Is this okay?” he whispers into the dark between us. I’m so far past okay I could cry—or drag him deeper until neither of us remembers how to stop.
“Yes,” I pant out, my breath hitching at the sound of him groaning as he palms the lower half of my ribcage, flicking his thumbs in an arch that feathers over the bottom of my breasts.
“Adhira—” he whimpers, “are you trying to kill me?”
“Hmm?” I muse.
“No bra?” he rasps out, his hands climbing higher until the pads of his thumbs graze over the swells of my breasts, flicking my pebbled nipples as my knees buckle beneath me.
“You seem awfully affected by this for a man who hadn’t noticed sooner,” I tease.
“I do an excellent job of avoiding looking at the parts of your body that make me weak,” he admits. “Which means I try to keep my eyes off you at all costs, unless I have a pillow over my lap.” He huffs a laugh, but it does nothing to ease the tension growing between us.
“No knickers, either,” I say, goading him.
“Wh-what?” His hands go still, and my stomach plummets. Have I pushed this too far?
“Adhira,” he whispers, dropping his mouth to my collarbone, and I shiver in delight beneath his touch. “Are you telling me you’re dressed in my sweatpants and my shirt, wearing nothing beneath them?” His breaths grow ragged with every word, and arousal coats my inner thighs.
I grasp one of his hands beneath the shirt in question, the one that’s about ten sizes too big and hits mid-thigh when I don’t tie it at the waist. Sliding his hand down, down, down, dipping beneath the waistband of the joggers I’ve knotted as tight as they’ll go.
I help him lead a searing trail down to my core, releasing his hand for him to continue his perusal or to walk away. His choice.
He cups me between my thighs without hesitation, and I keen against him, whimpering as my lids flutter shut and I all but collapse into his chest.
He presses the heel of his palm against the sensitive bundle of nerves I’ve neglected these past months, biting my lip until I draw blood, determined not to let him see me break in this way too.
Not yet. Not until he can really see me.
He slides his hand out, resting it beside my head, and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead before stepping back, letting me catch my breath.
Confusion and embarrassment cloud my vision, but they’re washed away with the tide of his words.
“My hands are covered in clay, and I can’t see you in here.
I want this.” He reaches out to grip my chin, tilting my head back.
“I want us, but not like this. I want to be able to see you and have every part of you, not just your body.”
His words ease the ache that had grown in my chest. “I want that too,” I whisper, hit with the weight of the honesty in my words. I can almost hear his smile as he presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Let’s clean up and get out of here,” he says, opening the door and tugging me back to reality.
And that’s the story of the night I learned just how difficult it is to get dried clay off your pubes, no matter how well trimmed you think you have them.