One Insatiable(27)

Walking takes considerably longer than running in my panther form. It’s dusk by the time I reach the grounds of her family’s place. Again, the large house is all lit up like a cruise ship, and I wonder why. Are they expecting guests? We’ve never discussed her family or what her obligations might be to them. As if I have a right to ask.

I’m standing in the shadows in my jeans and black tee, hands thrust deep in my pockets as I stare at her massive home. Mercy sure is a princess. Just then, a light flickers on inside a small shack on the opposite corner of the lawn. It looks like an old greenhouse. A person is inside, moving around, and naturally, I’m curious. I cut around the tree line to investigate.

For a few minutes I watch her through the dirty windows. Mercy’s inside the shack wearing loose jeans and a white, button-up shirt. Her long hair is tied up on her head in a messy bun, and she’s so focused. She carries a large bowl to the other side of the room and seems to be mixing with a wooden paddle.

Creeping closer, I stand just outside the open door and watch as she lifts out a lump of clay the size of her head. With a loud THUMP! she drops it on a wheel then leans forward and wets both of her hands as it starts spinning.

Straightening, she puts both hands on the mass, and with confident movements, she quickly begins the transformation. It goes from shapeless lump to compact mound with amazing speed. Then she repositions her hands, and it starts to grow into a vase. I’m impressed by how good she is at this.

She sticks her entire arm inside the neck of the vessel and does something. A wavy ridge immediately appears on the outside, creating an interesting, swirling design. A small line is between her dark brows, and I’m distracted by the focus in her shimmering blue eyes. She’s so f*cking gorgeous.

Sitting back, she stares at her spinning creation for a few seconds before taking both hands and pressing down on the thin lip. The entire vase crumples flat.

“Oh, no,” I say aloud, and she jumps with a little squeal.

“Koa!” She shuts off the wheel and stands, picking up a red towel and wiping her hands. “You startled me.”

“Sorry.” Stepping into the greenhouse, I motion to her piece. “You ruined it.”

“I didn’t like the way it looked.” She crosses to where I’m standing, wrapping her arms around my neck with a smile. “I can start over.”

I slide my hands up her small back, mentally noting she’s not wearing a bra. Leaning down, I nip her full lips with mine. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

A little laugh, and she shakes her head. “That’s my dream. I’m still getting used to calling myself that, though.”

“You’re clearly an artist.” Releasing her, I walk over to the shelves holding bowls and vases in different shapes and sizes. A small, glossy cup is tan on the bottom and sea green at the top with a matching spoon. “How long have you been doing this?”

She’s following me quietly, and when I look at her, she gives me a nervous smile. “About two years. I took some classes at the studio in town.”

I pick up a bowl that has jagged, gold lines down the side. “What’s this? Gold?”

“I didn’t make that,” she lifts it gently from my hand. “See these lines of gold? It’s a Japanese technique called kintsugi. Basically, you repair broken pots using 14-carat gold.”

She traces the fissure with her slim finger. “It makes the cracks beautiful, and it adds value.”

“It’s better because it’s been broken.”

“Right!” Her eyes are shining when she blinks up at me. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Is this what you want to do?”

She nods. “I want to move to San Francisco and get my own place. I want to be a designer and make and sell my own pieces.”

Another pot is shaped like a sleeping cat with a curled tail. “Cute,” I say with a grin. “I think you’ll be very successful.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Her chin drops and she crosses back to her workstation. “No one’s ever said that to me before. My sister wants me to stop wasting time and get married. She’s even picked out the perfect guy to play the role of husband.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Me either.” She exhales heavily as she sits on the small stool in front of the wheel, gathering the spoiled vase into a large lump and dropping it hard on the spinning platform again.

“Can I watch you work?” I pull up a small stool beside her, and she glances over her shoulder at me.

“Want to learn to make a bowl?”

“Sure.”

“Scoot forward. Give me your hands.”

I’m behind her, so I reach both arms around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder. Every breath is a hit of her soft perfume. It’s little flowers.

She dips her hands in the water and dampens my palms before cupping them around the spinning lump. “Apply pressure, but not too hard.”

The wheel spins, and I allow her to guide my movements using her palms on the backs of my hands. I confess, I’m not looking at the clay as much as I’m studying her small hands on mine, the smooth skin of her slender arms, the deep V in the button-up shirt she’s wearing.

From where I sit, as the shirt falls forward, I can’t miss the way her bare breasts sway with our movements. I’m growing less interested in pottery by the second.