I’ll never be free of her. She’ll never allow it.
Cole slams the windows shut and strips off his jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders.
“I’m covered in paint,” I tell him.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
I feel him shaking too, with anger.
“Where does she get the fucking nerve,” he hisses.
“She has no shame.”
“The fact that she thinks that proves anything except how fucking brainwashed you were—” he cuts himself off, seeing that talking about it is only making me more upset. “Never mind. Come on—I’ve got an idea.”
Numbly, I follow him.
I thought Cole would take me upstairs to the bedroom, or maybe into the main living room.
Instead, he leads me down to the lower level, to a parlor we’ve never visited before.
Like all the rooms, its doors are thrown open. I’ve only seen one locked room in this house: the one leading down to the basement.
As in much of Cole’s house, the original purpose of this space has been altered to suit his eccentric preferences. While the far wall is a large stone hearth, and the usual sofas and chaises are present, the bulk of the room is given over to a potter’s wheel.
Cole lights a fire in the grate. The pale applewood logs give off a sweet scent reminiscent of their fruit. The flames leap up, bringing alive the figures in the many paintings on the walls.
“Relax a minute,” Cole says, pushing me gently down on the sofa closest to the fire.
I sink back against the cushions, soaking in the heat. I’m still shaking, but not as much.
Why in the fuck does she still have this effect on me?
I have her blocked on every platform, I haven’t seen her face in years.
She’s 5’5 and fifty years old. Why am I afraid of her?
How does she still have the ability to reduce me to a blubbering child in an instant?
I’m so fucking pathetic.
Cole returns to the room, carrying his supplies. He pauses to set a vinyl on an old record player.
I have a deep love for vinyl. It’s not just something pretentious hipsters say—it really does sound different. The slight scratchiness, the rhythm of the platter rotating … it gives the perfect flavor to old-school tunes.
Cole knows this. The music that flows out of the speakers is old-fashioned and romantic. Not at all what I expected from him.
I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire – The Ink Spots
Spotify → geni.us/no-devil-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/no-devil-apple
The potter’s wheel spins clockwise because he’s left-handed. Moistening the center of the bat with a sponge, he sets a fresh lump of clay in place. He flattens the edges with his large palm, sealing with his index finger.
Once the clay is firmly in place, he increases the speed of the wheel and wets his hands until they glisten in the firelight.
I watch it all, mesmerized.
Cole’s hands are beautifully shaped and marvelously strong. I could watch them work for hours.
The way he strokes and manipulates the clay reminds me of how his hands move over my flesh. I feel my skin burning, and not from the heat of the fire.
“Do you want to try?” Cole asks.
“I’ve never made anything on a pottery wheel.”
“Come here. I’ll show you.”
He scoots back on his stool to make room for me. Shucking off his jacket so I don’t dirty the sleeves, I sit between his thighs, his arms around me.
Cole wets my hands as well, until they’re cool and slippery, his fingers gliding easily over mine. His warm chest presses against my back, his chin on my shoulder.
“Use your right hand to push the clay up,” he says. “That’s backward from normal, but it won’t matter to you because you’ve never done it either way. Your left hand is the support. That’s right—squeeze the clay inward, and let it rise up between your hands. That’s called ‘coning up.’ ”
Under his instruction, the softened clay does indeed rise between my hands like the cone of a volcano.
Cole’s hands cover mine, guiding me. Keeping my motions smooth and strong. Caressing my skin.
The earthy scent of the clay mingles with the sweet apple and the smoke of the fire. The crackle of the record player and the pop of the logs send a pleasant friction down my spine.
“I like how it feels,” I murmur to Cole. “It’s so cool compared to the fire.”
“It’s as silky as your skin,” Cole says, running his fingers up my bare forearm.
The wet clay streaks across my flesh.
I link my fingers into Cole’s, feeling the clay squish between our hands.
The cone collapses, but neither of us cares.
Cole rubs it between his palms, then runs both hands up my arms, plastering my skin. Painting me with the clay.
I turn to face him, straddling his lap, pulling my shirt over my head. Dropping it down to the floor.
Cole smears my bare breasts with the clay. It’s slick and cool on my burning flesh, my skin glowing pink in the firelight.
I let him paint me all over. I let him cover my face like a mud mask, leaving only my eyes and lips bare. He covers my neck, my chest, my back and belly.
The ancient Egyptians thought that humans were formed of clay. Their ram-headed god turned them on a potter’s wheel with mud from the banks of the Nile.
Cole is shaping me under the clay. Massaging my flesh, reforming my body.
I give myself over to him. I let him work.
I close my eyes, bathed in the heat and light of the fire. I’m laying on the rug now, Cole’s hands roaming over me. He’s stripped off my clothes. I’m naked as the day I was born.
I used to be Mara the victim. Mara the damaged. Mara the disposable.
The day I met Cole, I was dying.
Maybe I did die.
Through Cole, I was reborn.
Now I’m Mara the artist. Mara the star. Mara the unbreakable.
Only Cole could make this possible.
He wants to be the center of my universe.
I want that, too.
I want to worship him as the Egyptians worshipped their gods. I want to pray to him for help and protection.
I want to give him my mind, body, and soul.