“Soft,” he says. The backs of his fingernails drag back down my thigh, sliding past the hem of my dress to the bare skin above my knee. My head falls back of its own volition. “Delicate. So fucking light it dissolves on your tongue.” His eyes meet mine. His nails drag back up, a little heavier. For several seconds, or minutes, or hours, we hold on to each other’s gazes while his hand makes slow passes, up, down, up a little higher. “Can I see more pictures?” he says. I startle from my lust haze. “What?” “Of your pottery,” he says. “It’s not good,” I say. “I don’t care,” he says. “Can I see
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