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do it. Show me.”
    With a rueful laugh, he spread his hands to show her the clay on them. “You want this?”
    She looked at the cool, wet pile of clay on the side of the table and nodded. “I saw the way you smoothed that clay. I want it.”
    “Come here.”
    She shook her head, teasing him.
    He took a step and lifted his hands. “Last chance.”
    She stood firm and stared up into his eyes, knowing he’d find no doubt in her. Watching him manipulate the clay had made her hot, hotter than hot. She wanted him to handle her that way.
    Owning her.
    When his hands touched her waist, she shuddered. Hardened beads rolled off his hands.
    She touched the pile of discarded clay on the table. “Treat me like you treat this.” That smile she loved quirked his mouth.
    “With one or two differences. But yes, you have skin I can mould to my bidding. I create, bring to life shapes and thoughts that never found expression before. I’ll make your likeness in clay, then in bronze. You’ll be hard and metallic, not like this.” He ran his hand up from her waist, cupped her breast and squeezed. Everywhere he touched, he left streaks of red, as if drawing on her skin. But he wasn’t. He was creating her, renewing her.
    He rubbed her breast, left streaks of terracotta over her nipple. “You have to knead it first to get it elastic and ready to work. It reaches the ideal point and you just know it.”
    He bent, heedless of the smears and sucked her nipple deep into his mouth, releasing it with an audible pop before moving to the other. One long lick, and a caress, followed by a nip that made her shiver and want him even more and he was gone, leaving her nipples taut and glistening. He massaged her breasts and she leant back against the table that held the tray, heedless of the hot coffee there.
    But he wasn’t. One hand curved around her waist and he swung her around to lean against the table holding the clay, then he picked up the coffee and moved it further away. He’d locked the wheels on the worktable, so it didn’t move when she pressed her bottom against it. The cold, wet clay compressed against her flesh and the sensation, so different to his firm, warm hands, made her appreciate the texture.
    He reached behind her and when she felt his hands on her bottom, she became his creation. Cool clamminess spread over her backside and her waist, as if she were made of clay, and he was creating her, smoothing the soft, malleable medium over her body.
    “Remake me, Zoltan .”
    He gazed at her through eyes heavy with arousal. “You don’t need remaking. You’re exquisite.”
    “Used to be.”
    Not like the clay that smoothed over her body, made her feel fresh and new, as if he could rebuild her as perfect as she used to be.
    “Shut the fuck up. Your scars make you real.” He continued to run his hands over her body, stopping to caress and warm her suddenly chilled skin.
    The memory of the cold, clinical surgeries, the masks and racks of glittering silver instruments gave her the reminder of what was to come, but she shoved it aside.
    Not here, not now. Vashti concentrated on his hands moving over her, inciting her, encouraging her to give herself up to him, so he could make her into what she should be, what she needed to be to give her career a jump start.
    He lifted one hand off her to pull his T-shirt over his head. The few seconds it took left her bereft. She went back into his arms as if she belonged there.
    He shoved up her chin with a demanding hand and ravaged her mouth, plunging his tongue into her to caress and mould her inside and out. His arms went around her waist and his hands smoothed over her skin, leaving cold chills in their wake.
    She unbuttoned his fly and slid the zipper down, reaching inside to grasp his cock. Hard, hot and long, and so alive . “Fuck me, Zoltan . Make me forget.”
    “I’ll make you remember.”
    No clinical death lay here, only vitality and heat. Vashti revelled in the feel of his cock