Unlocking the door, she flipped on the lights and took a breath, inhaling the scents of clay and dust, her body already relaxing. Pulling her heavy canvas apron from a row of hooks on the wall, she slid it over her head and tied it in the back, then flexed her hands.
Her converted studio space was a bit primitive, but it suited her. The walls were the old plaster and lath original to the main house, without the benefit of drywall, but she loved the rawness of it. The ceilings were high, with a loft area around three sides and a wide staircase leading up. Colorful Chinese lanterns hung from the rafters, and at one end of the studio was a tattered chaise longue from the 1920s she hadn’t had the heart to reupholster. Instead she’d laid embroidered shawls over it and piled it with pillows for her comfort when she needed a place to recline and dream. Since she usually did figurative pieces—people, animals—she had photographs hung everywhere with images of her subjects, as well as images that inspired her work: dogs and cheetahs, house cats and elephants, hawks and alligators. Beautiful photos of human faces from all over the world. Graceful nude figures. And tucked in here and there were bits of vintage fabrics and ribbons, especially the old silk she used for her metal-and-textile insects. They were wildly different from her usual work, from the pieces she’d made a career out of. These small pieces were what had inspired her to learn to weld. But she hadn’t shown them to anyone yet. They weren’t ready. Or she wasn’t ready.
She turned to the large shelves that lined most of one wall, holding her supplies and tools—and her insects draped in canvas. But she didn’t want them tonight. Her gaze was pulled to the enormous wooden table in the center of the room her friend Martin, who owned the community artists’ foundry she used to cast her pieces, had built for her. Her latest project sat there, and she almost felt as if it were taunting her, but she didn’t want to work on it tonight, either. Wiping her hands on her apron, she blew out a breath. She had no idea what she wanted to work on—all she knew was she’d feel better once she had her hands in the clay.
Moving to the shelves, she cut a fresh slab of the red clay she kept on hand and carried it to the table, where she set it down, then pulled her wooden work stool closer and perched on the edge. Reaching for the shelf below the table’s surface, she grabbed the wire she used to make armature, her wire shears, a bottle of water. Pouring some of the water into the ceramic bowl she kept on the table, she took in another long breath as she looked over her materials, waiting for something to come to her. But all she could see was his face. His hands. The breadth of his muscular shoulders. Him in that black kilt she’d first seen him in. His mouth . . .
Duff.
“Fuck.”
She got up abruptly, moving back to the shelves, where she turned on her iPod speakers. The sweet, moody tones of édith Piaf made her shoulders drop, and she closed her eyes, losing herself for a moment in the music. But the French chanteuse’s sultry voice brought her mind back to Duff, making her remember the fantasy swimming through her mind, her body, as she’d brought herself to orgasm earlier.
“It seems there will be no escaping you,” she muttered. “So . . . I won’t.”
Turning decisively back to the table, she took her seat and began to mold the wire. In only a few minutes she had the basic shape, and began to lay the clay over it, sculpting the musculature, which was her usual process, then the flesh, which would bring out the detail, the personality of the piece. Her shoulders loosened as she worked the clay, as the music shifted from édith Piaf to Lana Del Rey and then to Janis Joplin. She loved the feel of the clay between her fingers, working without tools—only her bare hands. It was a sensual experience, and she needed it to be tonight. Getting up from her stool and shoving it back in order to gain a different perspective on the piece, she smoothed her palm over the awakening shape, stroking it, working more texture into the form.
“Oh, yes, that’s it,” she murmured, in the groove now as Etta James, another powerful, strong female singer, filled her studio with music.
Outside, thunder rolled, and soon she heard rain pattering on the roof, felt the damp in the air. It was one of the many things she loved about New Orleans—the sound of thunderstorms, the way it changed the texture of the air. And it always made her studio feel even more like a cocoon.
She had no idea how late it was when she was done. Her hands had the lovely, familiar buzz from working the clay, and she had to forcibly pull her head out of the creative space it had floated in for hours. Staring at the detailed phallus on the table, she wondered how closely it might resemble Duff’s. But she didn’t mind if it represented nothing more than the heat burning through her body, a heat inspired by him. This piece was erotic—erotica—in visual form, telling her the story she knew deep in her bones, and that was all she needed to know.
Smiling to herself, she wiped her hands on a towel. And knew she had to get back in the house and find her toys once more. Twice more. Because the heat filling her system like smoke on flame needed release. There was no denying what the man was doing to her, mind and body. And getting herself off until she managed to exhaust herself was going to be a full-time occupation until she saw him again. Until she had him. Or, more accurately, under these circumstances, until he had her.
She traced one fingertip over the clay phallus, feeling every ridge, every vein. “Oh, yes, Duff Stewart. You’ve definitely won this round.”
? ? ?
FRIDAY EVENING DUFF was just about to lock up the shop when Jamie stepped through the door that joined their side-by-side offices.
“Hey, you want to grab some dinner with Summer Grace and me?” his cousin asked.
“Can’t tonight.”
“No? What do you have going on? You going to The Bastille? We might end up there later.”
He shrugged. Why didn’t he want to tell Jamie what his plans were? It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever kept private from his cousin before. “Actually, I’m seeing Layla.”
Jamie’s brows arched. “Are you? You two kiss and make up?”