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My face is red-hot.
Candice is biting her lip, and Simone’s face is as red as mine, except she’s not blushing. She’s trying not to burst out laughing. Traitor.
With nothing else to do, I start centering my clay. It’s smooth, wet, and it feels calming to put my hands around it. Keeping my eyes firmly on my own wheel, I listen to Mac’s deep voice rumble through me as he gives instructions, encouragements, and tips.
My clay wobbles. I chance a glance over at Mac and reposition my hands, wetting them, moving them over the smooth material. After a few moments, I think I’ve got it.
Once the clay is centered, we start opening it. Mac demonstrates as he explains, but all I can do is watch the way those hands fondle the clay as a bowl appears on his wheel.
My panties are wet.
That’s so damn embarrassing. I’m turned on by the man doing pottery, for crying out loud. What is wrong with me?
It’s just… I can’t even explain it. He’s just so capable. He shifts his fingers ever so slightly, and the opening in the center of his clay widens. Then he shifts again, with water and clay running over his hands as the wheel goes around and around and around, and he pulls the sides up as if he’s commanding the clay to move. Soft, gentle strokes. Firm touches. Stiff, muscular upper arms, with his elbows braced against his wide-spread legs.
It’s erotic. Every movement. Every touch. Every focused, beautiful line of his face.
Tearing my eyes away from the sex-on-a-pottery-wheel show, I try my hands at opening my lump of clay. It’s harder than it looks.
Within a few seconds, there’s a warm presence at my back. Mac pulls his stool over next to mine. “May I help?” he asks.
“Of course,” I reply, my voice a croak.
Those gorgeous hands move closer, fingers pressed against my own, palms warm and broad against the backs of my mine. His touch is confident, warm, and it sends my mind reeling.
“Firm, even pressure works best,” he says, his head bent next to mine, so close his breath ruffles a rogue strand of hair.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Simone quips, and Fiona lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
I don’t even have the brain capacity to look up and glare at them.
Repeat after me: Murder is wrong. Do not murder your sister’s best friends. Murder will get you put in jail for the rest of your life, even if they deserved it.
“Here, like this.” Mac moves his hands over mine again, showing me exactly how to move them to shape my lump of clay into a bowl. The clay responds to him, and so do I. I can barely breathe at the feel of his hands on mine, his sleeve brushing my arm, his thigh pressed against my leg.
And our hands, wet. Touching. Stroking. Clay, cold and soft and malleable, moving exactly where he wants it to.
I can’t breathe.
He smells so damn good. I’m close enough to inhale it, bask in it.
My heart thunders against my ribs, and it’s all I can do to watch…and enjoy. My insides clench around the painful emptiness between my legs, and I try to hide the way he makes me want to squirm. I want to squeeze my thighs together, but Mac tells me to brace my elbows against them, so I have no choice but to keep them spread wide on either side of the wheel. When he picks my hand up and shows me how to place it to pull up the sides of the bowl, my breath hitches.
Mac notices. He glances at me, turning his head so his lips are only a couple of inches away from mine. Sinful, stormy eyes meet mine, then drop to my mouth. His gaze lingers, tracing the shape of my lips, and I almost expect him to kiss me.
Then I remember we’re in a room with women who won’t think twice about teasing me for the rest of eternity, not to mention a bunch people I don’t know. I’ve been divorced for all of four days. I can’t kiss Mac. I can’t kiss anyone!
I jerk away from him, gouging the side of my bowl in the process.
Mac just grins. “Luckily, wet clay can be reshaped.” He nods to the gouged clay. “Show me.” His command shivers through me, and I make the mistake of meeting Simone’s eyes.
She wiggles her eyebrows, mouth forming the words show me in a much more suggestive way. And damn it, I’m blushing again.
I turn my attention to my wheel as Mac rinses his hands in my bucket of water and watches me. I wet my own hands again, then shape the bowl just like he taught me.
“Good, Trina,” he says, and oh, my name on his tongue sounds sinful. “You’re a natural.” Mac’s eyes darken, and for a few long seconds, I’m caught in the crossfire of his gaze.
Then someone—Candice, maybe?—clears their throat, and Mac jerks his gaze away. He mumbles something about helping the other students, and I busy myself shaping and reshaping my bowl.
