Page 106 of Chasing Forever
Brooks
This morning, Lottie wrote a note on my coffee cup.
Kiln Me Softly-7pm
I’m hoping that means she’s giving me the pottery lesson I asked for.
That evening, I park at her house and walk the trail to her pottery shed, finding the door cracked open.
“Lottie,” I say, pushing it open the rest of the way.
The shed is dark with candles spread throughout the space and soft music playing in the background.
“Lock the door behind you.” She comes out from behind a shelf, wearing a white button-down shirt, and I pray nothing else underneath.
“This seems like a date I should plan.” I break the distance between us.
“Consider this me making up for our third date.” She allows me to pull her to me, and I give her a chaste kiss.
“You didn’t have to?—”
“I did. But don’t worry, date four is all yours.”
“I already have a plan.” I tap my temple.
She winds out of my arms, and I miss her immediately, as if I don’t really breathe unless she’s near me.
“Did I dress okay?” I ask, looking down at my jeans and T-shirt.
“You okay getting them dirty?”
“I had hopes I would, but I kind of like this T-shirt.” I strip it off my body. “I kind of like that shirt too.” I eye the shirt she’s wearing, since I’m pretty sure it came from my closet.
“You said you like me in your clothes. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I’d like it better on the floor.” She feels too far away, so I weave around the battery-operated candles to her.
“Remember, you’re here for a pottery lesson.” She holds up her finger when I get too close.
I hold out my arm. “Lead the way.”
She sits on the stool and pats the spot behind her. I straddle her from behind, and my hands run up the outsides of her thighs. She leans forward to center the wet lump of clay on her pottery wheel, and her ass hits my dick. I could watch her all day. The way her arms move, how her hips shift slightly on the stool.
“Here.” Her wet hands take mine and bring them over to the cool clay.
My lips brush just beneath her ear as I inch closer, pressing against her back.
“You’re gripping too tight,” she murmurs, winding our fingers together. “Loosen your fingers. There. Let the clay come to you.”
I shift slightly, trying to focus on the way her hands manipulate the clay, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth of the body tucked in front of me, the sweet curve of her breasts, or the way my thighs brace against her. Her voice is low, instructional. I have no idea how she’s able to concentrate on making whatever it is we’re making when all I want to do is abandon the clay, pick her up, and take her over to one of the tables.
“What do we do next?” My voice is way too eager to get this part over with.
She chuckles. “I’m letting you feel the rhythm of the wheel.”
“I’d like to feel something else right now.”
“Focus,” she says, turning her head toward me. “If we don’t control your speed, our masterpiece will collapse.” I groan, and my hand lifts off the clay, ready to touch her teasing curves, but she snatches it back and places it back on the clay. “Pay attention to your task, Sheriff.”
