Page 24 of Imprisoned Obsession

“Pottery?” I echo my thoughts. “I’ve always wanted to try it.”

Elio chuckles, and his eyes twinkle perceptively. It doesn’t faze me since I assume he knows that already and brought me here for that reason.

He drags me inside. Instantly, the smell of clay assaults me. The pungency of the scent almost gags me. It stinks. I never knew that wet clay smells this horrid.

Elio takes my backpack and shoves it into a locker. He slips the scrunchy band around his wrist as the key dangles wildly.

It doesn’t match his crisp suit. His attire is the last thing he should be wearing in a place splattered with clay.

His dry-cleaning bill will be ridiculously high.

“Come and sit,” he offers as he holds my hand.

The shop owner greets us enthusiastically as he wipes his hands with a dusty towel. He mentions the price per hour and points us towards a clean station.

Elio squeezes my hand, and I look at him owlishly. He sits and yanks me onto his thick thighs, my ass plopping down as my shoulder jabs his broad chest.

“There’s another chair,” I point out, embarrassed as a girl takes her eyes off the spinning clay to raise a judging brow at me.

Elio purrs into my temple. “Your seat will always be on my lap, darling.”

“That’s not—” I mutter, but I give up the fight.

He throws the speckled apron over my head and ties the strings swiftly. His arm wraps around my waist and tightens roughly to stop my fidgeting.

“What about you?” I ask as I face the wooden table.

I’m trying hard to convince myself that I’m worried about his dry cleaner having a difficult time getting the stains out without damaging the material.

“I’m not fond of this suit.”

Elio reaches behind my back and fumbles with something before his black suit jacket goes sailing out of my view. The jacket lands on the unused chair, discarded and forgotten once he begins to sensually roll his white sleeves up to the elbow.

Sensual in my head, but it’s just practical to him.

I swallow with difficulty as unintelligible sounds rumble off my swollen tongue.

He has beautiful ink, very intricate. It isn’t one big design; it’s endless twisting black lines that interlace and fade into each other.

A chef-d'oeuvre. I’m not his masterpiece. Elio is a masterpiece of his own creation.

“You’re red, darling,” he notes with a hand on my forehead. “Are you ill?”

My cheeks tingle hotly as I frantically slap his hand away just in time for the owner to arrive with a receipt for Elio. They exchange words, and the man starts in with basic safety procedures. Then he goes into detail about how to avoid being wasteful while working with clay.

He leaves us on our own as quickly as he came onto the scene.

Elio guides my wet hands into the slowly spinning clay. A chunk of it isn’t wet enough to glide smoothly in my palms, but it gets better with time.

It’s an extraordinary experience to have his hands cupping mine in such a gentle manner. I have felt nothing but malicious possessiveness and carnal greed whenever he touches me.

The shape is coming together beautifully, and I’m mesmerized by the peaceful process of turning a brick of unsightly clay into a piece of art.

Elio grazes his cold, wet fingertips over the curve of my knuckles. My fingers seize and twitch violently at the teasing gesture.

The unfinished piece collapses, flicking wet droplets onto my apron. Sadly, thirty minutes of effort just crumbled with one mistake, but I don’t feel much disappointment as I watch it stop spinning.

I whisper without blinking, “I’m sorry.”

---