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“That’s what you call it?” He is utterly delighted, rubbing his hands together. “Yeah, I want tothrowpottery.”

I eye him, already knowing where this is headed. Nowhere I can hide.

It’s not safe.

Not for him. And definitely not for me.

But I know he won’t leave. Once this man gets an idea, that’s it.

“Okay.” I stop the wheel, mashing the clay into a lump—it wasn’t turning out the way I wanted it anyway—and tip my head back. “Come on. Sit down.”

He settles himself behind me, thighs outside of mine, his chest against my back, and it makes me think of that first night when I rode on his motorcycle. The one he rides a few nights a week. The one he’s asked me to get on the back of no fewer than fourteen times in the last week. The answer is always the same.No.

But, this? I can do this. Feet on the ground, his big, warm body wrapped around mine.

“What are we making?” he asks, reaching for the clay, overeager.

I slap his hands away. “A flowerpot. You need to be gentle.”

“I can be gentle.” Though the way he rubs his five-o’clock shadow along my neck is not at all gentle.

“First things first. We have to make sure the clay’s wet,” I say, and his chest expands against my chest for a comeback that I cut off because it is surely filthy. “Scoop some of that water onto it.”

He dips his hand into the bowl next to the wheel and douses the clay. “This good?”

“A little more. Yeah, that’s good. Now we mold it.”

His arms come around me, caging me in as his largehands cover mine, our fingers intertwining as I guide them up and down, shifting the shape of the clay. His breath feathers over my ear, making me aware of every point our bodies connect. Hip to hip, his chest to my back. It feels dangerously intimate.

Together, we form a dome, and I try not to think about his strong hands roaming my body instead of clay.

“Okay, now we open it up,” I say, and I feel more than hear the rumble of his chuckle against my back, the amused puff of air against my neck. “You’re such a child.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

I move our hands to the top, crooking my thumbs, and he copies the action. Together, we press down and out, hollowing out the middle.

“Perfect. Just like that.”

His lips ghost over my neck. “I like the sound of that praise, duchess.”

I swallow hard, determined not to let him fluster me. But it’s so hard.

Heis so hard behind me. From his pectoral muscles to what I know is his dick against my ass. His sweatpants don’t hide anything.

“Don’t get smug. We’ve still got work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I walk him through the next steps, lifting the side, shaping the rim, smoothing out imperfections. His fingers follow mine the whole time, his easy inhales and exhales keeping rhythm with the spinning wheel.

As we continue, his touch grows from tentative to more confident until he’s doing most of the work. I wet the sponge, squeezing water over his hands and the clay, and he hums behind me. “This is like that movie.”

“Ghost?” I guess.

“They do it on the pottery table,” he says, and I sputter a laugh.

“That is not at all what happens.”