His laugh was startled, genuine in a way that made me bite my lip to keep from laughing. Then he lunged, grabbing both my wrists and spinning me until my back pressed against the nearby wall, careful to avoid my shelves of supplies but still pinning me.
“Now I have you,” he murmured, his face close to mine. Clay dripped from his temple, sliding along his cheek. Without overthinking it, I leaned forward and kissed him. It was playful, almost sweet, my lips catching his and drawing him in.
He stilled for a moment, then released my wrists to cradle my face instead, deepening the kiss with careful attention. The taste of wine and clay and him mingled on my tongue, making me dizzy.
When we broke apart, his silver eyes had that molten quality that made my stomach flip. “I think I like your teaching methods,” he whispered. “It brings out the brat in you.”
I smiled, trying not to squirm under his attention and failing. “You’re a disaster at pottery.”
“I prefer to think of it as creative expression,” he quipped, glancing at the collapsed lump of clay on his wheel.
“Is that what you’re calling it?” I laughed, the sound coming easily.
We were both a mess—clay-streaked and disheveled—but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this light. This...happy. The realization was both thrilling and terrifying. Happiness was easily stolen away.
“Let me help clean up,” he said, releasing me and looking at the splatters of clay that had reached the wall and floor during his mishap.
“It’s okay,” Iprotested, but he was already gathering towels from the stack I’d prepared.
“I insist,” he said as he set himself to scooping splattered clay from where chunks had painted the walls.
We worked together in comfortable silence, wiping down surfaces and gathering tools. When our hands met, reaching for the same towel, he didn’t pull away, just let his fingers linger against mine for a moment longer than necessary.
“I should shower,” I said when we’d finished, gesturing at the clay still speckling both of us. “You can use it after…”
The invitation hovered unspoken between us. In the weeks since that first night on his couch, we’d developed a pattern—sex at his place, but always with me returning to my apartment afterward. I’d never asked him to stay here, and I’d always left his place before dawn. My place had been off-limits…until today.
“Or,” I continued before I could lose my nerve, focusing on arranging clean towels, “you could just stay. If you want.” I risked a glance at him, heart hammering. “It’s late, and…”
His smile was soft, something almost tender in his eyes. “Of course, my love.”
I pretended not to notice how his hands tightened around the broom, turning away to hide whatever might be visible on my face. “Great. I’ll just…” I gestured awkwardly toward the bathroom.
His hand caught mine, tugging me back. “Alex,” he said softly, waiting until I met his eyes. “Thank you. For tonight.” Like heunderstood what it had cost me to open this door, to let him into this part of my life. Letting people in had always been difficult and often dangerous for me.
“It was just pottery,” I said, deflecting with a shrug. “Not very successful, in your case.”
“It was perfect,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to my clay-smudged forehead. “Now go shower. I’ll finish tidying up here.”
I turned the water as hot as I could stand it, letting steam fill the small bathroom as I peeled off my clay-stiffened clothes. The running water had barely begun to rinse the first layer of clay from my skin when the bathroom door opened.
Through the fogged glass, I watched Kronos’s silhouette as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the carved lines of his torso. I took a step back to get a better view of him, only being able to see the outline of him from the chest down.
“Mind if I join you?” His voice was casual as he stepped out of his jeans.
“Please do.” I moved back, making room as he slid the shower door open and stepped in. My tiny shower stall wasn’t built for someone his size, let alone two people, but that just meant there was no avoiding the press of his skin against mine. I took in the firm curve of his ass as he scooted past me to reach the back of the shower.
“You’ve got clay…” His fingers traced my jawline, brushing at a stubborn spot near my ear. The simple touch sent delicious chills racing down my spine. “Everywhere, actually.”
“So do you,” I managed, watching water sluice over his shoulders, turning the dried clay to rivulets of gray that traced the contours of his chest.
He reached past me for the soap, his chest brushing mine in a way that could not possibly be accidental. “Turn around,” he instructed, his voice dropping low and sultry. “Let me help.”
I obeyed without thinking, the warm spray hitting my chest as his hands, slick with soap, worked across my shoulders. His touch was different tonight—less commanding, more attentive–like he was mapping every inch of me.
“You’re good with your hands,” I murmured as his fingers worked the tension from my neck, sliding down to trace my spine.
His soft laugh rumbled against my back as he pressed closer. “I have many talents.”
