His eyes darkened at that, but he just sipped his wine, letting the comment slide by with admirable restraint. “And pottery stuck with you?”
“It’s therapeutic,” I said, surprised at how easy it was to talk about this with him. “Working with your hands, creating something from nothing. Kind of like leatherworking, but...messier.”
We finished our food in companionable conversation, and I felt the last of my tension drain away. This was good. Different from our usual dynamic, but good.
“Shall we begin?” he asked, catching me staring.
I cleared my throat, setting our plates aside. “Yeah, let’s get to it.”
I guided him to one of the pottery wheels, positioning myself at the other. “First, we need to prepare the clay.” I handed him a lump of gray stoneware clay, taking another for myself. “You want to knead it like bread dough, work out any air bubbles.”
He followed my lead, those powerful hands working the clay with careful attention. I tried not to stare at the way his forearms flexed with each movement, the way his fingers pressed and shaped the material. It was almost hypnotic. Also, veiny arms, hello.
“Like this?” he asked, and I realized I’d been silent too long.
“Yeah, you’re doing great,” I said, grateful he was too focused to see me breathing a little heavier. I needed to get a grip. “Now we need to center it on the wheel.”
This was the tricky part, and I wasn’t surprised when Kronos’s clay wobbled as the wheel spun. What did surprise me was the flash of frustration that crossed his face—quickly controlled, but definitely there. The mighty Primal, undone by a lump of wet clay.
“Here,” I said, moving behind him. “It’s all about finding the center.” I placed my hands over his, guiding them to the spinning clay. “Feel that? When it’s centered, there’s almost no resistance.”
His body was warm against my chest with his sandwiched between my arms. I could feel the slight tension in his broad shoulders as he concentrated.
“Relax your grip a little,” I cooed, bending his elbow a little. “Let the clay move with you, not against you. There you go.”
The clay smoothed under our combined touch, finding its center on the wheel. When I stepped back, Kronos looked up at me and raised a brow.
“You’re an excellent teacher,” he said, and the simple praise made something warm unfurl in my chest.
“Now the fun part,” I said, moving back to my wheel. “We’re going to open the clay and start shaping it. Watch me first.”
I demonstrated on my wheel, enjoying the familiar motions—pressing my thumbs into the center of the spinning clay, gradually widening the opening, pulling the walls up with careful pressure. Muscle memory took over, and I found myself lost in the process, barely aware of Kronos watching until I looked up to find his eyes fixed on me with intense focus.
“Your turn,” I said, my voice coming out a little rougher than intended.
He positioned his hands as I had shown him, but the clay warped. His brow furrowed as he tried to correct it, only making the wobble worse.
“Easy,” I cautioned. “You’re using too much pressure.”
“I thought pressure was the point,” he snapped, as the clay continued to resist him.
I bit back a smile. “Gentle pressure. Consistent. Like...when you’re checking rope ties. Firm but not forceful.”
He adjusted his approach, but the clay had already lost its center. It spun off-kilter, and when he tried to correct it, the entire lump collapsed, sending a spray of watery clay across his chest and face.
The sight of the always-perfect Kronos with gray mud splattered across his face, looking bewildered, broke something loose inside me. “I’m sorry,” I gasped between chuckles. “Dios mío, mírate!” I laughed, unable to contain myself. “You look like you lost a fight with a mud puddle.”
He looked down at himself, then back at me, and a slow smile spread across his mud-speckled features. Holy shit. With clay streaking his chiseled cheekbones and that genuine smile lighting up his eyes, he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Not perfect-beautiful like in a magazine, but real-beautiful. Raw. My chest hurt looking at him like this.
“I believe I need more instruction,” he said, his voice carrying that a tint of humor.
Before I could retreat, he reached out and smeared a handful of wet clay across my cheek. “There,” he said, satisfaction in his tone. “Much better.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I grabbed a handful of clay, but he caught my wrist before I could retaliate.
“Careful, little bunny,” he warned, though his eyes sparkled with mischief. “You’re dealing with a predator.”
“A very dirty predator,” I countered, using my free hand to smear another streak of clay across his jaw.
