“We?” I look up at him over my shoulder as he stands behind me.
He grins, a little bit charming, a lot devious.
He places his hands on my shoulders and spins me around again, this time giving me the once over.
“You will have to change,” he says. “I don’t want your beautiful dress to get ruined.”
I glance down at my dress. It’s strapless, with pink and white stripes. I think I got it from a cheap store like Primark.
I’m about to tell him I don’t care if it gets dirty, even though I’m still not quite sure what tonight is about to entail, when he starts unbuttoning the rest of his black dress shirt.
“Wha—” I say, my voice catching, unable to take my eyes away as he opens his shirt and takes it off.
Oh my lord.
I cough, nearly choking on my own spit since I’m salivating over him.
I know Claudio goes swimming early in the mornings, but I have yet to catch him in the act (I mean, I should, considering he’s seen me naked, something I hate being reminded of), which means I’ve never seen him without a shirt, which means despite my vivid imagination, I had no idea how hot he really was.
He’s ridiculously hot.
Like, footy player, movie star, rock star hot.
He’s got the V on his hips, the treasure trail, the six pack, the wide, taut chest with a dusting of chest hair, the sinewy shoulders and muscular arms, and the world’s most gorgeous skin tone. He’s got it all and he’s just standing there, like his unveiling is no big deal. He should have at least warned me.
“What are you doing?” I manage to ask.
His plush lips curve into a smirk.
“You have a problem?” he asks playfully. “Put this on over your dress.” He reaches over me, placing his shirt on my shoulders, holding out a sleeve. “My shirt is already a wreck.”
I glance down at his shirt. It looks spotless.
I reluctantly put my arms through the sleeves. I expect it to feel hot and damp from sweat, but the shirt is cool, and it smells like him, like spicy almonds. I busy myself by buttoning it up, then rolling up the sleeves, averting my attention from his chest.
“You’re not going to put on a shirt?” I comment after a moment, trying not to look at him.
He shrugs. “I can if it makes you uncomfortable. I often work like this. It gets hot in here, and dirty. Messy.” He says dirty and messy with husky deliberation, drawing the letters out, exploring each word. I fight the urge to squeeze my legs together to quell the throbbing. “I figure, I’ve already seen you naked. It’s only fair.”
Thanks for the reminder.
“So what exactly are we doing?” My voice is practically squeaking.
“We are going to make art,” he says. He perches on the edge of the stool and gestures to the clay. “Go for it.”
I stare at him, agape. Go for it? Go for what?
“I see,” he says after a moment. “How about you tell me what you’d like to create.”
“Uh, nothing?”
“Is that so?” His brow quirks up. “If you could create anything right now, put something into this world that wasn’t here before, make something exist, give birth to a creation, you wouldn’t know what to make?”
I rub my lips together, trying to think.
“Okay,” he says with a chuckle. “How about some wine first.”
Aye. Wine. What a good distraction.
I reach for my glass and take a hearty gulp. He does the same with his and then takes out a lump of clay. I watch him as he palms it over and over again, and I can’t help but imagine those same hands doing the same to my body. Then his fingers do the work, expertly pushing and prodding and stroking and…
I have another gulp of wine. The fact that he’s shirtless in front of me and handling that clay like I’d want him to handle my body is too much. Add in the fact that his face is creased in concentration, his tongue occasionally sliding out of his mouth, and I’m a goner.
This was a mistake.
I mean, what am I doing here? I should go upstairs and try to write. Hell, I should go upstairs and put my vibrator to work. Anything but the torture of watching him do this.
I never thought I’d ever be jealous of a piece of clay.