In the pottery studio, the soft hum of the wheel fills the air as you sit down, nervously eyeing the lump of clay in front of you. Lorenzo sits behind you, his breath tickling your ear as he reaches around to guide your hands. His fingers wrap around yours, pressing them gently into the cool, wet clay. “Feel the texture, how it moves under your touch.”

You nod, swallowing hard, feeling the heat of his body so close to yours. “Like this?” you ask, your voice a bit shaky.

“Exactly,” he murmurs, his voice a, soothing rumble. “Apply a bit more pressure here…” His hands guide yours, pressing the clay and shaping it with deliberate, sensual movements. “Let the clay respond to your touch.”

Lorenzo’s hands are steady, confident, and you find yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the wheel. “You’re doing great,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

The clay begins to take shape under your combined efforts, the smooth surface gliding effortlessly beneath your fingers. “Now, gently pull up,” he instructs, his hands never leaving yours. “Feel how it rises at your touch.”

You follow his lead, the clay molding to your will. His breath is warm against your neck, and you feel a rush of heat that has nothing to do with the pottery wheel. “It’s all about control,” he continues, his voice low and intimate. “But also about letting go, letting the clay guide you as much as you guide it.”

The moment is charged with unspoken tension, the pottery wheel spinning steadily beneath your hands. “You’re a natural,” Lorenzo says, his lips just a whisper away from your skin.

You look over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his. “Thanks to you,” you reply, a small smile playing on your lips. “You give directions really well.”

He softly chuckles. “It makes me wonder what else I could talk you through…”