Page 83

“Let’s get to it.”

I press the pedal and the wheel begins to spin. Good. This is doable.

“Here goes nothing.”

I watch the clay for a wobble, but there is none. Which means it’s centered.

A tingle spreads across the back of my neck. Maybe the magic is helping us.

And maybe it’s not.

I put my hands on the cold clay and begin to shape it gently, letting my fingers guide it. The clay is hard. On TV, potters make this look easy, like the clay is soft. In real life, it’s not.

The spinning wheel and the hum of the machine just about put me in a trance. I barely notice when Rhett’s hands come up behind me, like in the movie.

But as soon as his fingers touch my skin, a pulse of fire winds down my arms. I exhale to calm myself, but as his hands reach out and touch the clay, helping me mold it, my breath catches.

His touch is electric, and every place his fingers graze me, an imprint of heat remains.

“If only we were making Bitty Beings,” he jokes.

A throaty laugh rips from me. “I don’t know, this has its upsides.”

“And those would be?” he asks, his voice dropping so low a vibration runs down my spine.

“This right here, I guess.”

His breath dances over my shoulder. “You’d call this an upside?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“We’re not close enough.”

Mayday. Mayday. Danger, Will Robinson.

Every argument that should come to my mind doesn’t. I should be focused on Glen. On protecting my parents from him. But I’m not. The only thing floating in my mind is how wondrous Rhett’s touch feels, and how I want more of it.

He scoots closer, until his chest brushes against my back. His fingers are slick from clay and water, both pairs of our hands are colored gray.

“I think the way to make this work is to do it like this,” he explains, moving his hands in a way that opens up the clay.

“What are we making?”

His hands rest lightly on mine, and his body rocks into me, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat pushing me slightly forward and back.

“What do you want to make?” he whispers in my ear, in a voice that suggests the last thing we’re doing is making pottery.

What do I want to make? The closeness of him, the smell of his minty breath, the way his body cups mine all cloud my brain.

He edges closer, his mouth right against my ear when he asks again, “What should we make?”

I say the only thing that comes to me. “A bowl?”

There’s a grin in his voice when he replies, “A bowl, it is.”

Then we’re moving together—don’t ask me how. His hands guide mine, our fingers slick as we press into the center of our clay and shape it.

His chest cradles my back, steady and warm, every breath syncing with mine until I can’t tell which one of us is moving the wheel. His hands work mine in a way that ignites my body. My nipples harden as he runs his hands over my knuckles, guiding me on where to put pressure, when to release it. And when he drops his mouth to my ear and coaxes me along, I nearly orgasm right then and there.