Page 60 of There is No Devil

I’m so fucking pathetic.

Cole returns to the room, carrying his supplies. He pauses to set a vinyl on an old record player.

I have a deep love for vinyl. It’s not just something pretentious hipsters say—it really does sound different. The slight scratchiness, the rhythm of the platter rotating … it gives the perfect flavor to old-school tunes.

Cole knows this. The music that flows out of the speakers is old-fashioned and romantic. Not at all what I expected from him.

I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire – The Ink Spots

Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple

The potter’s wheel spins clockwise because he’s left-handed. Moistening the center of the bat with a sponge, he sets a fresh lump of clay in place. He flattens the edges with his large palm, sealing with his index finger.

Once the clay is firmly in place, he increases the speed of the wheel and wets his hands until they glisten in the firelight.

I watch it all, mesmerized.

Cole’s hands are beautifully shaped and marvelously strong. I could watch them work for hours.

The way he strokes and manipulates the clay reminds me of how his hands move over my flesh. I feel my skin burning, and not from the heat of the fire.

“Do you want to try?” Cole asks.

“I’ve never made anything on a pottery wheel.”

“Come here. I’ll show you.”

He scoots back on his stool to make room for me. Shucking off his jacket so I don’t dirty the sleeves, I sit between his thighs, his arms around me.

Cole wets my hands as well, until they’re cool and slippery, his fingers gliding easily over mine. His warm chest presses against my back, his chin on my shoulder.

“Use your right hand to push the clay up,” he says. “That’s backward from normal, but it won’t matter to you because you’ve never done it either way. Your left hand is the support. That’s right—squeeze the clay inward, and let it rise up between your hands. That’s called ‘coning up.’ ”

Under his instruction, the softened clay does indeed rise between my hands like the cone of a volcano.

Cole’s hands cover mine, guiding me. Keeping my motions smooth and strong. Caressing my skin.

The earthy scent of the clay mingles with the sweet apple and the smoke of the fire. The crackle of the record player and the pop of the logs send a pleasant friction down my spine.

“I like how it feels,” I murmur to Cole. “It’s so cool compared to the fire.”

“It’s as silky as your skin,” Cole says, running his fingers up my bare forearm.

The wet clay streaks across my flesh.

I link my fingers into Cole’s, feeling the clay squish between our hands.

The cone collapses, but neither of us cares.

Cole rubs it between his palms, then runs both hands up my arms, plastering my skin. Painting me with the clay.

I turn to face him, straddling his lap, pulling my shirt over my head. Dropping it down to the floor.

Cole smears my bare breasts with the clay. It’s slick and cool on my burning flesh, my skin glowing pink in the firelight.

I let him paint me all over. I let him cover my face like a mud mask, leaving only my eyes and lips bare. He covers my neck, my chest, my back and belly.

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