Page 178 of My Ruthless Husband

He steps closer, gently cupping my face in his hands. “Because I’m determined to make you happy, no matter what it takes.”

I clasp his wrists, gently tracing his skin with my fingers. “You know what else would make me happy?”

“What’s that?”

“If you spend the entire day here with me,” I tease, knowing full well that it’s not really possible. But honestly, I’m content with just this moment.

“Done,” he says, catching me off guard.

“I’m not talking about christening this place with sex, just so you know,” I warn, narrowing my eyes.

“I know. But I wouldn’t mind that option either.”

I raise an eyebrow. “When I say spending time here, I mean me giving you a lesson of pottery.”

“And I said done.”

I study him with narrowed eyes for a beat. “All right then, husband. Get ready to roll up your sleeves and get dirty.”

He arches an eyebrow, and heat floods my cheeks. “You know what I mean—”

He just hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me closer. “I’m all yours, wife.”

???

“Like this?” he murmurs, his hands brushing against mine as he mimics my movements on the clay, but his fingers linger a moment too long, sending shivers down my spine.

I should’ve known. Damian paid no attention to my instructions for the last twenty minutes, his focus glued more to me than to the clay. Judging by every ‘accidental’ touch, every brush of his fingers over mine—it’s clear he’s more interested in teasing than learning.

I’ve scolded him half-heartedly, but truth be told, his little touches are getting to me far more than I’d like to admit. Potteryis my passion, and I haven’t touched it in over a year, I should be lost in it but my sole focus is on my husband.

“Sort of,” I reply, my voice sounding unsteady even to me. “You’re supposed to put some muscle into it, not just… poke it.”

“Poke it? I’m doing exactly what you’re showing me.”

Shaking my head, I step behind him, slide my arms around him and guide his hands back to the clay. “Here, let me show you how it’s really done.”

“Feel the texture. It’s all about pressure and balance.” I lean in close, letting my breath skim the side of his neck as I press his hands into the clay, guiding his fingers in the steady, kneading motion.

He tenses, his shoulders stiffening, and I bite back a smile. I can practically feel his resolve slipping. Two can play this game. He’s been driving me crazy with his teasing; now it’s my turn.

My fingers trail slowly over his hands, savoring each reaction—every quiet shift, every quick breath.

“Just like that,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath in his ear, holding him close enough to catch each little reaction.

“Now let’s move to the wheel,” I say, taking pity on him. I explain about how it works as I guide him over to the pottery wheel. There’s a spark of excitement as I settle onto the stool, pressing my palms firmly into the spinning clay. “Watch closely.” I glance up only to find his eyes locked on me with an intensity that sends warmth rushing to my cheeks.

“It’s all about patience,” I explain, my voice a little shaky now. “Here, you try it.” I move to stand, but he steps in behind me, sliding his arms around me, just as I did moments ago.

His hands cover mine, his fingers threading through mine against the clay, his chest pressed against my back.

He’s so close that I can feel every breath he takes, every shift, every quiet inhale. It’s impossible to focus, but I don’t pull away.

I shift slightly. My heart races, and I take a breath to steady myself, feeling an ache that has nothing to do with pottery.

We work together on the wheel, our movements synchronized as the clay takes shape beneath our hands. Suddenly, he leans in, his lips grazing the edge of my ear. “You really love this, don’t you?”

I nod, my heart pounding. I can’t help sneaking a glance at him, admiring how he’s focused now, intent on learning—doing it all just to spend the day with me.

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