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My voice comes out gruff, and in the few silent moments that follow, I realize I really, really want Trina to say yes. I want her to sit with me and throw a bowl or a pot or whatever we decide to make. I want her to sit here and soak in the magic of this space, the meditative qualities of the pottery wheel. I want her close to me.
When I lift my gaze to her, a bag of clay hanging from my hand, I see her face split into a wide smile.
She nods. “Yeah. But only if you’re ready for my mediocrity.”
My brows twitch into a frown at her words. Mediocre? Trina is the furthest thing from mediocre. Sure, she kind of sucks at pool, and she’s a beginner at throwing pottery, but one look at the woman and you’d know mediocre is not a word that describes her in any way.
Jerking my chin to the wheel, I cut a piece of clay, prep it, and tell her to pull up a stool. Then I realize she’s dressed for a nice dinner out, with her designer-looking jeans and lacy black top. “Hold on.” I put the ball of clay down and grab a pair of coveralls.
Trina grins. “And he cares about my clothes too. I’m liking you more every minute I spend with you, Mac.” She says it in a joking way, but I can’t help the warmth snaking through my chest at her words.
“The feeling is mutual.”
And it’s the truth. All my worries about getting involved, about committing to someone…they just disappear whenever Trina’s around.
She blushes, then gets to work putting the coveralls on over her clothes. When her arms are in, I can’t resist stepping closer to her and zipping her up. Her eyes meet mine as my hands linger at the top of the zipper, that lush lower lip caught between her teeth.
Clearing my throat, I nod to the stool. “Sit down.”
“You sure like ordering me around, don’t you?” An arch of her eyebrow makes me want to kiss the sass right out of her. But she still does what I say.
“Woman, you have no idea.” My voice is full of gravel, and Trina’s cheeks blush pink.
“I should smack you for calling me woman.” She sticks her tongue out at me and laughs, sitting in front of the pottery wheel with her hands on her lap. “Okay. Now what do we do?”
I grab another seat and place it behind hers, pressing my thighs against her hips and reaching my arms to rest on her legs. It’s a reversal of how we ride the bike, and I love the way Trina leans back into me and fits her head into the crook of my neck. She, too, can’t stop leaning into me. Wanting more contact.
It’s almost enough to make me forget about the clay and rip those coveralls right off her body. But Trina looks at me expectantly and dips her hand into the bucket of water beside us.
With a grin, I follow her lead, sliding my hands over hers as I turn on the wheel and start centering the clay. This is something I’ve always done by myself. I don’t teach many classes, and I’ve never invited anyone to work in my studio. Pottery-making is something I do alone in the woods with nothing but my thoughts and maybe a stereo blaring my favorite songs. I can sit here for hours, and on a warm night like tonight I love keeping the studio doors open while yellow light spills out into the night.
This is new for me. Having a beautiful, magnetic woman wrapped up in my arms, feeling every little moment of delight as she feels clay moving under her touch. Knowing she’s experiencing this for only the second time, and I get to experience it with her.
It’s turning me on.
The way she leans into me, then gets caught up in what we’re doing and moves forward, eyes on the spinning wheel, on our hands, on the water and clay running over our fingers. For a few long minutes, we don’t speak. We center the clay together, the stubble on my jaw rasping against her cheek as I lean over her shoulder, my body wrapped up around hers.
I wonder if she can feel how hard I am. I wonder if she knows every time I catch my breath. I wonder if this moment feels as intimate and spellbinding to her as it does to me.
When I curve my fingers over hers and start opening the clay, Trina’s body relaxes into mine. Her hands turn pliable in mine and we work together, our bodies so close we move as one. We don’t speak. There’s only the noise of cicadas outside and the pottery wheel whirring inside, our quiet breaths, the rustle of the bucket of water any time one of us dips our fingers into it.
“What are we making?” Trina finally asks as I guide her to pull up the sides. “It’s smaller than what we made in class.”
“A cup,” is my reply. My breath ruffles a strand of hair near her temple, and I feel her smile against me.
“Do I get to keep it?”
“Only if you come back to glaze and fire it.”
She laughs. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“Is it working?”
Trina’s smile widens as she turns to look at me, her lips just a few inches from mine. Eyes twinkling, she gives me the barest of nods. “Yeah,” she says. “It is.”
And in that moment, with her body relaxed against me, our hands messy with water and clay and her lips so close to mine, I can’t resist any longer. My hand finds the crook of her waist, the thick material of the coveralls crinkling under my touch. I pull her close and crush my lips to hers.
Trina lets out the sexiest, sweetest little whimper as her lips part and her tongue searches for mine. Gripping her waist, I pull her close and cup my other hand to her jaw, my thumb sweeping over her cheek to keep her close.
