Page 65 of The Long Game

Cameron’s palms fell immediately on top of mine.

Once more, it was my whole body that felt the touch of his skin against the back of my hands. I lifted my head, meeting his eyes across the tabletop.

“Like this,” he said in a low voice, the heels of his palms pressing on top of my knuckles. “You feel the pressure of my hands? Do like I’m doing. Feel the way the clay gives.”

I looked down, shocked and strangely pleased at the sight of our hands as they fused together over the clay. I swallowed, less reluctant to allow him to take the lead, and more enthralled by the controlled motions before me.

With a silent nod, I started taking mental notes as best as I could, while he continued the motions.

“Let the wheel turn with the movement,” he said, and I felt myself release all remnants of control. I’d let him guide me. My hands. Completely. “You need to press on the sides so it sticks to it.” The plate turned with the motions of our hands, his voice turning into a focused murmur. “Just like that. Yeah. That’s about right.”

Once the ball was fixed, he grasped my wrists and lifted my hands in the air. He hummed deep in his throat, observing our work.

I opened my mouth to ask if there was something wrong, but all too soon, Cameron was releasing me and his hand was flying toward the clay.

He swatted at the ball.

Once, twice. Three times. And I—

Oh God. Was Cameron spanking the clay? My heart dropped to my stomach. Why couldn’t I stop staring at his hand? Why was my face feeling like flames were licking at my cheeks?

I brought one of my hands to my forehead, checking how my skin felt to the touch. I must be coming down with something. This couldn’t possibly make me so hot.

This wasn’t erotic. This was just clay.

“Seems good to go,” Cameron said next, grabbing a sponge I hadn’t even seen there. He wetted it in a bowl. “We can get started with the centering.”

“The centering,” I repeated in a wobbly voice.

He nodded, and when the man squeezed the sponge gently, letting a few water drops fall onto the clay, I was certain. I had to be sick. Something was going on with me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be finding the way his wet fingers slid around the slick material so suggestive. My throat dried.

“Adalyn?” His voice made it through the insanity in my head.

I looked up at him. His eyebrow was arched. “Press the pedal, darling.”

“The… what?”

“Make the wheel turn,” he instructed, his tone gentle, so gentle it felt foreign. As if he was talking to somebody else. “With the pedal.”

My lips bobbed, my understanding of basic things stifled by those unexpectedly suggestive visuals of the clay. “What do you mean?”

Cameron sighed softly, and suddenly he was on the move, walking around the table.

He placed himself behind me. “You’re making this really hard,darling,” he said, and before I could process his comment, his palm landed on my thigh. Strong fingers wrapped around my leg, slid down to my knee. He lifted my now numb limb, letting my foot fall on something. That warm, large hand pressed gently, his body coming slightly over mine with the motion. “Quit looking at me all soft and sweet and focus on pressing the pedal with your foot, yeah?”

I was shaken—so overwhelmed by the sudden closeness of Cameron’s body and his words—that instead of pressing, I jerked my leg forward, hitting the pedal with uncontrolled force.

The wheel whirled, wickedly fast, splattering mud all over the place. Us.

“Christ,” Cameron growled, his arms coming around my body, as if to protect me from the splashing mud, and his leg swiftly replacing mine. The thing slowed down. “You have to start at a gentle speed,” he instructed, his mouth much, much closer than it had been a few seconds ago. Right beside my temple. His leg moved again, making me notice how it pressed right against mine. “See?” he asked, but I didn’t see a single thing. Not with Cameron wrapped around me. “We have the control of the wheel. Us.”

Us.

We.

I didn’t think I was breathing but I nodded. So enthusiastically that the back of my head collided against his collarbone. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I… was distracted.”

By you. Your touch. The way you’re sandwiching me against the edge of the tabletop.

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