I Want To Learn
I gulped biting my lips in nervousness.
"I don't know—am I supposed to sit in front of you, or behind you, or—"
He laughed softly, his eyes warm. "Usually I'd just let you sit here alone, but if I'm going to guide you, maybe I should sit behind you?"
I bit my lip nervously. "Yeah. Maybe that's best."
He moved smoothly, standing and stepping aside. "Sit down," he encouraged gently.
I settled onto the low stool, smoothing my dress carefully. Rowan moved behind me, his chest close enough that I felt warmth radiating through his shirt onto my back. His arms wrapped loosely around me, reaching past my waist to the clay in front of us.
The scent of him—fresh and faintly woodsy—wrapped around me, making my heart flutter erratically. My skin flushed from the intimate closeness.
"Now, keep your hands soft," Rowan instructed, his voice low and steady in my ear. "Pottery is all about balance. Too much pressure and the shape collapses, too little and it won't form properly."
I nodded, trying desperately to concentrate. His breath brushed warmly against my neck as he leaned closer, carefully positioning my fingers around the wet, cool clay. I trembled slightly at his touch, biting my lower lip.
"Relax," he murmured softly, gently guiding my fingers into the proper position. "Like this."
He pressed his palms lightly over my hands, moving them in slow circles. The clay began to rise gracefully beneath our touch, taking shape beneath his careful instruction. My pulse quickened as I felt the deliberate movement of his fingers against mine—strong, confident, methodical.
"See?" Rowan's voice rumbled gently near my ear, sending shivers along my spine. "Steady, patient."
I forced myself to focus on the pottery rather than his closeness, but the warmth of his breath at my neck made it nearly impossible. Heat flooded my cheeks, my toes scrunched involuntarily inside my shoes.
His fingers brushed lightly over mine again, guiding them inward, and my heart thudded harder in my chest. His gentle strength was dizzying, making my breath hitch.
"You're doing well," he praised softly, his voice low and husky. "You're a natural."
His breath ghosted warmly across the sensitive skin behind my ear. My eyelids fluttered involuntarily, a rush of desire rippling through me. Oh God, if he only knew what his voice was doing to me right now.
He leaned even closer, murmuring instructions again. "Now ease your fingers upward, just like that—"
His voice dropped, softer, deeper, brushing intimately against my ear. My resolve shattered. Without thinking, a quiet moan slipped past my lips.
The pottery wheel spun to a halt.
Both our hands stilled instantly. Rowan went rigid behind me, his breathing noticeably sharper. Panic flooded my chest.
Slowly, he shifted back enough to look at me. I sat completely frozen, unable to turn around, barely breathing. My cheeks burned hot with embarrassment.
Rowan cleared his throat softly, his voice quiet but edged with a suppressed smile. "Did you just—"
"No," I blurted out instantly, my voice tight and high. "That was—I mean—it was just—"
I turned slightly, risking a quick glance at him. Rowan watched me intently, curiosity and amusement evident in his expression.
He arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.
My face flushed deeper. "Ovulation," I rambled suddenly, mortified. "That was just ovulation. Hormones, you know. Scientifically, women—"
He laughed softly, clearly amused now, and leaned close again, gently brushing his lips against the curve of my neck. My breath caught sharply, my rambling cutting off abruptly.
"Calm down," he whispered, his voice gentle but teasing as his lips grazed my skin again, soothing and warm. "You're okay, Remi. Just breathe."
Should I freeze? Should I not freeze?
He just kissed my neck. Oh my fucking God.
My heart hammered violently in my chest as his lips brushed softly against my skin. Heat spread everywhere—down my neck, over my collarbone, straight down between my thighs. I swallowed, trying desperately to collect myself, but his closeness made rational thought impossible.
Slowly, I turned to look at him, eyes wide with nerves.
Rowan was watching me closely, his gaze intense, cautious—yet clearly aware of the effect he'd just had. His lips twitched into a faint, almost boyish smile.
“Are you alright?” he asked, voice deep and careful.
I nodded quickly, perhaps a little too eagerly. "Yeah—I'm good," I managed, voice trembling slightly. "Let's just…continue."
He tilted his head, looking amused but gently concerned. "Are you sure?"
I nodded again, swallowing hard, determined to ignore the way my body reacted to his closeness. "Yes, absolutely. Just keep teaching me."
He studied me a moment longer, then leaned forward again, his chest warm against my back. The subtle pressure of his body sent shivers racing down my spine. His hands returned gently to mine, guiding me back to the pottery wheel.
"Alright," he said softly, his breath warm against my neck. "Focus on your hands. Feel the clay between your fingers."
I drew a slow, deep breath, forcing my attention onto the clay. It was cool and smooth, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from his skin against mine.
"Good," he whispered, guiding our fingers in slow, controlled movements. "Just like this."
I tried to concentrate, I really did. But each time his thumb brushed softly over the back of my hand, each time his breath drifted over my neck, my thoughts splintered into fragments of desire. My skin prickled, every nerve aware of exactly how close he was.
My thighs clenched involuntarily, a reaction I couldn't control. I shifted slightly, hoping he wouldn't notice. It didn't help. The ache intensified.
Rowan spoke again, voice a soft murmur near my ear. "Relax your shoulders, Remi. You're holding too much tension."
Easier said than done.
I exhaled shakily, feeling the warmth of a blush rising higher in my cheeks. My nipples pressed insistently against the fabric of my dress, sensitive and uncomfortably obvious. I prayed desperately that he couldn't tell.
But Rowan was observant, dangerously observant. His movements slowed, the gentle circles of his fingers pausing momentarily.
"Remi?" he asked quietly, concern laced with subtle amusement. "Are you sure you're comfortable?"
"Totally," I lied, my voice coming out as barely more than a whisper. "It's just the clay—it's new for me."
His soft chuckle vibrated gently against my back. "The clay, huh?"
He leaned slightly closer, the warmth of his chest pressing firmly against my shoulder blades. I bit my lip, struggling to keep quiet. His voice lowered again, teasing but cautious. "Because if it's too much, we can stop."
"No," I said quickly, too quickly. I bit back embarrassment, forcing myself to sound steadier. "I mean, no. I want to learn."
He was silent for a beat, his thumb brushing gently along the back of my hand once more. My breath caught in my throat, my pulse quickening painfully. I pressed my thighs tightly together, desperate for some kind of relief, even though it only intensified th
e ache.
"Alright," he finally agreed softly, resuming the slow, rhythmic movements. "We'll keep going."
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