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Finley’s soft breasts press against my back, her soft arm tickling mine. When she’s in front of me, just watching, she smiles like she’s happy. She likes teach
ing me. And at the end, we have a vase. An actual vase.
She holds it up like Simba from The Lion King. “We’ll put it away in this Tupperware for a bit—” she gestures to a tub that’s pushed against the house’s wall— “so it will dry evenly despite the wind. Afterward, you can paint it and we’ll set it in the kiln.”
I’m squinting as she talks, and I picture the bowls and plates in the kitchen. “Wait…those plates inside?”
Her cheeks redden as her mouth curves—a little bit mysterious, just like a siren.
“Damn.” I arch my brows. “You’re really good.”
She shrugs and does a girly spin thing, sort of like a pirouette. She looks happy and…I think that’s maybe bashful?
I step over to the rubber trash can where she keeps her clay. There’s a foot or so gone off the top of the pile, cleaved away with something circular.
“You used up all that so far?”
She nods, and I run a fingertip over a ridge in the clay. “Those lines are your fingers.” I smile.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Their imprint.”
“Did you do the mugs, too?” I get mine up off a table by the wheel, running my finger over its teal-with-gold-flecks sheen.
She smiles shyly, and I cup her chin in my hand.
“What?” she whispers. She’s smiling, but she looks embarrassed.
“You’re an artist, Siren.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Come here.” I catch her hand in mine and lead her back into the house. As I’m walking toward the kitchen, I notice how good my body feels. Like…this sort of calm. I can breathe easier. I squeeze her hand. “That tea.”
“Yes? Did it make you feel nice?”
“It did.”
In the kitchen, I take out the plates and set them on the table. Some have mermaids, some have fish, one has a whale, another dolphins, one a boat. The style reminds me of an oil painting, with chunky brushstrokes and bold colors she blends so they look a little magical. It’s a testament to how terrible I’ve felt since I got here that I didn’t wonder before about who made these.
“You know you could sell these, easy.”
“I do…sell some of my work. But no one orders much from the island’s web site. Perhaps twice a month, though less often recently because I haven’t posted new work for a bit.”
I run a finger over one of the mermaids’ tails. It’s so realistic, I expect the plate to be grooved atop the fin. Instead it’s nice and smooth, her painting just tricking my eye. “I can help you get a site up. Your own website. I bet you could bring in some good money.”
She smiles softly, and I realize what I’m saying. I shake my head, then step close enough to grab her hands. I swing her arms a little, just because I like to touch her. “What do you buy if you have some extra money, Siren?”
She smirks. “Money’s nearly always extra. But…I buy paints. Clothing on occasion. Sometimes pens. The lovely sort of pens.”
I pull her close and kiss her. “You like pens?”
She shivers, and that makes me chuckle. I run a fingertip over her earlobe, and she does it again.
“Fuck…” I walk her slowly back against the counter.
“What a horrid, dirty mouth,” she murmurs.
When she kisses my neck, I rub my dick against her hip and kiss her lips until she’s panting. I nip at her throat, and she does the little shiver thing a third time. My cock throbs. “Love when you do that.”
