18
Rue
I’m more than a little bit confused about why Dryas brought me out here to do pottery in this artist’s studio, if I’m honest. It feels like a ploy of some kind, especially every time I catch him looking at me with hunger in his gaze. Cursing my choice of the thin camisole top, I shiver as he guides me over to the pottery wheels.
His touch is scalding hot against the bare skin of my upper back. I expect him to grab me around the waist or something, but he doesn’t. He just releases me, opening the cabinet instead.
“I have no idea what I am doing, by the way,” he says, rifling through the contents of the cabinet. He pulls out a plastic bag containing a square hunk of white clay. “Does this look good?”
Pressing my lips into a line, I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“Works for me.” He sets t
