The Potter's Wheel- MaNan Drabble

She sat at the potter's wheel cross-legged, trying to shape the pliant mass of clay with her hands as the potter's wheel spun slowly and gently. His hands came up from behind her, trailing a slow path down her arms, pausing gently at the crevices of her elbows and then proceeding languorously down to her wrists. He paused. She waited. His fingers traced out a slow circle around her wrists, a small slow seductive circle, a gentle teasing, his thumb teased out a response from the beating pulse of her wrist. They met again at the palms, his enveloping hers, hers finding a safe haven in his. He crooked his head into her shoulders. Lingering touches. Warm breath. The erratic pulse at her neck was the only thing that betrayed her nervousness as he helped her mould the clay, feeling the earthiness of the wet clay. The rain battered against the glass panes. The smell of the fresh grass and the wet clay drifted into the room, wispy evening scents. Lush and green, Heavy and earthy.

Just like them.