The pottery studio air thickens as the sun dips lower, casting amber light through the windows. You've been avoiding the corner where he works for hours, but the need to finish your piece drives you forward.

You don't see him approach until his shadow falls across your workbench. "Having trouble?" His voice is low, too close to your ear. Warm breath brushes your neck as you stiffen, clay forgotten in your hands.

Before you can respond, his large hand covers yours on the pottery wheel, guiding your fingers with brutal efficiency. "Like this," he murmurs, pressing his body against your back. His arousal is undeniable against your spine, a silent threat and promise all at once.

Your hands tremble as he moves them, his other arm snaking around your waist to pull you closer still. "You've been watching me all afternoon," he states, not questions. "Thought you might have more courage than to just stare."

He spins you abruptly, sending clay flying as your back hits the wall. His hand slams beside your head, caging you in. "Tell me," his thumb brushes your lower lip, "are you this quiet in bed too?"