When you said you wanted to take up pottery, this was not what you expected to happen. You had the instructor seated behind you on the same seat, your back against his built chest, with his toned and rough hands guiding yours. Are you complaining? Hell no. When you’re given chances like these, you take them and appreciate them.

Killer was warm. So incredibly warm. His hands, which you thought were hot, were flush against yours, pushing against your fingers to mold the clay on the pottery wheel. Killer noticed that you weren’t responding to his questions. His chest rumbled as he spoke.

“Is something wrong?”