Page 21 of Afterglow (Ottawa Regents #3)

Dip, Drip, Wet

Fletcher

My dick is so mad at me.

Let’s take it slow, you say. Fuck right off. Listen, my guy, we’ve been fine using our hands and imagination so far. A little longer won’t kill us. It might , he protests.

We had to separate to get out of the truck, but instead of the couch, Bea sent me to my room with strict directions.

“Fletcher?” She knocks three times. “You changed?”

I smooth my beard and give my hair a last floof before answering the door. “Yep.” I drag both hands down my sides. “Is this grungy enough for pottery throwing?”

She takes a step back and studies my faded Carhartt work pants and the plain tan tee with paint blotches on it from when we repainted my parents’ house last summer. “Adorable.”

We saunter to the spare room, which looks more like a paint and pottery studio with the wheel, clay, and some tools set up next to it. A clear plastic sheeting secured with blue painters’ tape protects every surface: the floor, the walls, the bookshelves.

“Wow. You went all out.”

“Anything to avoid clay stains. Exhibit A.” She motions to the various spatters on her shirt and cuffed jeans. “Ready for your first lesson?”

I return a stiff salute. “At your command.”

“Alright, have a seat on the stool. You’re left-handed, right?”

“Yep.”

“Lemme move the pedal” —Bea lifts the metal lever and wire over my head— “this is the pedal, by the way. It controls the speed of the wheel.”

“Like a sewing machine.”

“Kinda. That’s your water.” She points to a cloudy bowl. “Put a couple drops on the smallest circle in the middle there, then rub it around, enough to get it wet.”

Fuck me. This was such a bad idea. I follow her direction, failing to subdue my horrendous blush.

“And here, here’s your clay.” She unwraps and hands over a formed ball. “Get a feel for it.”

“It’s heavier than I thought.”

“Yep. Now here’s the fun part. Slam it down into that circle as close to the center as possible.

” My arm lifts and turns to whack it onto the surface.

“Easy, killer.” Bea manually turns the wheel and adjusts the clay slightly to the left.

“Your dominant hand will go here. But before you press the pedal, give that clay a smack.”

I clap the top of it.

“Harder, Fletcher.”

I’m so fucked.

“Like this.” She demonstrates by raising her hand and slapping the clay so hard, it flattens.

“Jesus.”

“That’s how it’s done.” After putting a second stool down with a thud next to me, she sits. “Bring the water bowl to this side. Then start the pedal, and push all the way down, or else it’s more work for you up here.”

I do as I’m told. “I like when you’re bossy.”

“Stay on task, please. This clay is pricey, and it’s all I’ve got left. Now, dip your fingers in the water and let it drip down your palms.”

Yeah, I’m too immature and horny for this activity.

“Put your hands on it,” she adds. “I’ll show you how to make a cylinder first.”

The clay is cool and firm and stays put, despite the high speed. Her hands join mine, keeping the round from going wonky under my heavy hand. “Not too hard. It only needs gentle encouragement. Use the heel of your hand to push upward.”

It grows, taller and taller, but when Behraz lets go, I squeeze too hard, and the clay elongates into a flaccid penis flopping around everywhere. “Ahhh!”

“Let go of the pedal.”

The spinning ceases, limp clay dick still staring back at me.

“Rookie mistake. Alright, that’s okay. We’ll start over.” We repeat the same steps after Bea brings the clay back to a flattened ball shape. “Dip, drip, wet,” she directs.

I clear my throat with a cough. “Has anyone ever told you that throwing pottery is strangely…suggestive?”

Her focus shifts from the clay to me, a wry smile perking the corner of her mouth. “Never heard that.”

“You knew this? You’re messing with me?”

“No, no. This is the terminology. Stop the pedal for a second. It’s really uncomfortable to help you from the side.” She ducks under one of my arms. “Sit back.” Bea wiggles onto the stool between my legs, her back to my front, the ass of her jeans rubbing right up against…oh, no.

I contract every muscle, trying to give her some space, but there’s none left on the wooden surface.

“Please don’t move.”

Her legs line up with mine, hands guiding me to the water bowl and back.

She takes her fingers, along with two of mine, and dips them, pressing their wet tips into the peak of the cone we’ve formed on the wheel.

The ends of her ponytail tickle my shoulder, and I nudge them away with my chin and short puffs of air.

“That gave me goosebumps.” Bea extends her neck and pushes against me. “Do it again, but wet it first.”

“Your neck?”

“Mmhmm.”

The wheel whirs, pedal to the floor at the highest speed as my tongue licks a stretch of delicate skin beneath her jaw. I blow a breath over it. Behraz quivers against me. “Good?”

She nods. “Keep going.” Her hands clamp over mine when my mouth grazes over the same spot.

“Suck.” I lick and suck, lick and suck, lick and suck until Bea writhes so much, my cock throbs from the friction.

“Fuck,” she rasps, releasing the clay, moving our muddy hands from her knees up denim-covered thighs. “Will you touch me, Fletcher?”

“Show me how.”

One of her hands drags my damp, dirty fingers over her inseam. “Right here.” The increasing pressure has her squirming and whimpering my name.

“God damn,” I groan, then tongue over that sensitive spot on her neck again.

“Here, too,” she murmurs, guiding my other hand to her chest. Her breast is soft and firm and heavy. I gasp. “Squeeze,” she demands.

I mold it in my palm, tighter and tighter until it fills and spills over.

Building pleasure sparks from my groin, winding and winding, nearly ready to explode.

“Bea,” I moan. She doles out the same treatment to my neck with her brilliant fucking tongue, and my head lolls to one side to allow for more.

My foot slides from the pedal, and we break free, her hands wrenching at my hair while I rub concentric circles against her clothed pussy, switching my free hand between her lush tits, leaving us both panting and sweaty and filthy.

“You feel so fucking good,” I breathe into her ear.

She stills, her trim nails biting into my forearm when she lets go and finishes with a wince.

I keep her flush to me, lips to her neck, every muscle juddering as my orgasm explodes.

We collapse onto one another, and I sheathe her with my body.

Her hand reaches for my cheek before she peers up at me.

“That was fucking fantastic.” She beams, then pulls at the clay handprints on her chest and crotch. “You’ve made a mess of me.”

“I guess we’re even.”

“How so?”

My eyes drop to my crotch.

Bea gapes, wide-eyed. “You…came?”

“In my pants.”

“Holy shit. I barely touched you.”

Oh, my God. I came on myself without her touching me. How’s it gonna be when she actually touches me? My cock twitches in response. I’m fucking ruined.

“That is unbelievably hot,” she continues. “And like I said, doing wonders for my ego.”

At this rate, I’m miles ahead of the roster for dryland training. I’m so sexually frustrated, I double up workouts simply to rid myself of it. It’s not particularly effective, but at least it gives me something to think about other than how stunning Behraz looks when she comes.

I finish lifting weights at the gym, but stay an extra hour, joining a group of guys on the basketball court who were short a player. The apartment is eerily quiet when I get back, and I think maybe I forgot about Bea’s therapy appointment or something. My calendar says it’s not until tomorrow.

I shrug to myself and opt for a freezing cold shower.

It’s cut short when I hear a thud. Then there’s a whine. I haphazardly dry myself and tug on a pair of sweats, racing across the apartment while imagining she fell in the shower again.