But then, he trailed his hands up and over my shoulders, palms floating down every inch of my arms until they covered the backs of my hands. He threaded his fingers over mine, moved us closer to the wheel, and started it again — this time, bringing my palms to the clay.
He didn’t actually explain anything, just used his hands to guide me. He’d dip our fingertips in the bowl of water at the station before showing me how and where to press against the clay to shape it. We molded it into a fat, shallow shape before he showed me how to lengthen it, to make it deeper and more narrow.
As always, his French music served as the soundtrack, and the longer we worked, the more I understood.
It was peaceful.
We didn’t make anything of perfection or beauty. Quite the opposite, actually. We’d mold for a while, only to destroy and start again. But there was something magical in that process alone, that we could build and then change our minds, shape and then wipe clean, start over at any point.
Just like the first time I’d watched him in this space, I found myself mesmerized by his hands. They were wet and covered in clay, just like mine, and the way they cupped and pressed against the terra-cotta was so erotic it made me wet without him even touching me.
When he felt like I had the hang of it, Vince removed his hands from behind mine, letting me try out shaping on my own.
But that left his hands with nothing to do.
And so, they began to roam.
He rested them on my knees, marking my bare skin with the cool, wet clay before he dragged it up, up, up, toward the hem of the jersey that just barely covered my thighs. I sighed when his fingertips slid under the fabric, my head falling back against his chest, eyes closing.
“You’re making a mess,” he mused in my ear before kissing behind it, and I peered my eyes open long enough to see where the clay had begun to warp and spray again.
I flicked the machine off, twisting in his arms to straddle him.
“So are you,” I said.
“Of your panties?”
“I’m not wearing any.”
He cursed. “So there’s nothing underneath this,” he said, rubbing his hands on the fabric of my jersey. He used it like a towel, absolutely destroying it in the process of wiping his hands clean.
I hoped that meant he had other plans for them.
“I mean… there’s something,” I teased, nipping at his bottom lip. “Maybe you should explore.”
When his hands were as clean as he could get them, he did just that.
It was a shock of cold lightning, one hand jutting between my thighs as the other reached up and under to palm my breast. I balanced haphazardly in his lap, trying to maneuver to give him more room as he teased my slick entrance with one thick fingertip.
He groaned when he felt me, flicking my nipple and sliding just a fraction of that finger inside me at the same time. Then, he withdrew both hands and smacked the side of my ass.
“Up.”
I jumped off him, and as soon as I was out of the way, he made quick work of his shorts and tore his t-shirt over head. His briefs went next, and then it was just him — tan and toned and gloriously naked.
Vince tugged me back into his lap and caught me in a rough kiss, our teeth clashing when he did. He held me steady with one hand as the other reached down and placed the tip of his cock against my opening, and he pulled my hips down at the same time he flexed hard, filling me with brute precision that made me gasp and see stars.
“Oh, fuck, Maven,” he groaned when he filled me, withdrawing only to press all the way in again. I felt his pelvis curl under me, felt how he flexed his ass and dug himself as deep as possible, until I was sitting all the way down. “I love the way you feel. Every single time.” He shook his head like he was in disbelief. “I’ll never get enough of this, of you.”
We were both needy, kissing and clawing and fucking each other hard. It was like we only had minutes before the clock struck midnight, before the spell was broken and we were without each other again.
I tangled my hands in his hair, matting it with clay as I rolled my body and bucked my hips. He filled me, again and again, his brows etched together as if he were in pain, as if he needed to bury himself inside me to feel anything at all.
Every now and then, he’d look down at where his team’s name was on my chest, his hands curling over the stitching on the back that spelled out Tanev, and I swore I felt him fuck me harder then, deeper, with more intensity than I’d ever felt before.
My climax built furiously fast, and I tossed my head back, moaning and bouncing in his lap. Deftly, I felt his hand wrap around my throat, and he squeezed with just enough pressure to make my vision go dark and heighten all my other senses.
“Open your mouth,” he said, and when I did, he slicked his fingers inside.
I could still taste a bit of the earthy clay mixed with his salty skin, and I swirled my tongue around those fingers like it was his cock. He groaned like that’s what he was imagining, too, but then he pulled out and trailed his slick digits down and under my jersey.
They slid between my cheeks, toying with the hole he wasn’t currently filling as my eyelids fluttered.
“Yes,” I breathed.
Vince smirked against my neck, answering my plea with one smooth plummet of his middle finger deep inside me.
I gasped, shaking, clinging to him as he set my orgasm on fire. He filled me in every way — his mouth on mine, his cock buried inside me, his finger stroking the inside of my asshole with the same perfect rhythm. The combination made me combust, and a numb fire licked at my nerve endings before spreading and consuming my entire being.
I moaned his name as I came, and with a groan, he followed. I felt him spill inside me, and it only made me come harder, made the orgasm echo like that was the key to unlocking a series of aftershocks.
It was unbridled and messy and so fucking hot.
When we finished, Vince carefully removed his finger, but kept me there in his lap, his cock softening a bit inside me. We were sweating, my forehead pressed to his as he wrapped me up in his arms.
As our breaths evened, he moved my hair from my face, holding at the back of my neck like he was afraid I’d pull away. I could hear his heart racing, felt his head shake marginally as his brows pinched together even more.
“What?” I asked.
But he just shook his head again.
We stayed like that a few minutes, holding tight to each other without a single word, and then he began moving again.
Pump. His hips flexing into me. Pump. His mouth claiming mine. Pump. His hands sliding under the fabric of the jersey before sliding it up and over my head.
He dropped it to the floor, hands exploring my newly revealed skin that had been covered the first round. He roamed every inch of my navel, my rib cage, my breasts, and back down to my hips.
And he grew harder inside me, his release mixing with mine and providing the lubrication to keep going.
Everything was more sensitive this time, our bodies already sated as we pushed them to give us more. My eyes locked on his, and Vince held me there, grabbing the back of my neck and making me watch him as he flexed deeper.
It was too much.
I wanted to close my eyes, to look away, to disconnect. Because the way he looked at me, the way he slowed his pace so much that he was just barely moving inside me, the way he held me so tight like he thought I might disappear…