Page 47 of Late Bloomer
“You seriously didn’t have to get me anything,” I say.
“Yes they did,” Diksha says with finality. “Presents are mandatory, Pep. It’s the law.”
“I’ve only known her for a few hours and I’d rather walk on broken glass than go against her rules,” Ophelia says with admiration, jutting her thumb toward Diksha.
“Don’t encourage her,” I plead, pulling out a ceramic pot, wider than it is tall. I turn it around and let out a gasp suitable for a middle schooler as I take in the voluptuous ass carved into the side and a few centimeters of full thigh at the base. The top of the pot is tapered slightly for a waist. A huge giggle erupts from me, my cheeks heating. I have the bizarre impulse to look at Opal.
Which would beweirdandinappropriate,so I focus on unwrapping the second piece of pottery in the gift bag. It’s somehow even better than the first, a big pair of asymmetrical boobies front and center.
“Absolutely amazing,” I say, my face on fire and even more giggles tumbling out of me. “No notes.”
I can’t fight the urge any longer, and risk a glance at Opal through my lashes. She’s staring at the pots, her mouth slightly ajar and brow furrowed, then she slants an accusing look at her sisters.
“We have a confession to make,” Ophelia says, giving Opal an arch look. “Our dear sister here didn’t tell us this was a birthday party until we were five minutes from leaving the house. So we didn’t have time to go out and buy these.”
“But, we figured every home needs some Opal Devlin originals,” Olivia says, fixing me with a bright smile.
My throat goes dry, and I’m worried that if any more heatfloods my face, I’ll start glowing like a spotlight. “You made these?” I ask, looking again at Opal. I don’t know why I picture her hands, caked in clay, moving and shaping the curves of the pot. Leaning close as she studies her intimate work from multiple angles. Fingers tracing over—
Absolutely not. I refuse to get hot and bothered from thoughts of ceramic pots.
Opal takes a deep breath, tilting her head up to the ceiling. “During school, yeah. They’re… Well, I’ve made better since.”
“Nonsense, Opie,” Ophelia says, giving her sister’s knee a squeeze. “These are some of your best works.”
“I don’t think that’s the compliment you think it is,” Opal murmurs, giving a death glare to Ophelia.
“They’re amazing,” I whisper, eyes locked on Opal.
She looks at me, brows furrowed over those big blue eyes, a gentle blush creeping up her round cheeks. She scratches her nose, then tugs at her hat as I continue to stare.
And then I sort of… short-circuit, I guess. I jolt forward across the couch, pots tumbling off my lap and against the cushions as I get closer. I throw my arms around her neck, pulling her into a hug that’s way too aggressive. Way too ferocious.
A hug that means way too much.
I feel Opal jump, and I pull away immediately, garbling out something that sounds vaguely likeThank you.
There’s an awkward pause in the room, and then, in perfect unison, Olivia and Ophelia chirp out, “You’re welcome.”
I don’t miss the devious glance they share.
“Clean up!” I squawk, bolting upright and grabbing everything within reach. I trip my way to the kitchen, plates clanging as I drop them in the sink.
“Smooth,” Diksha says right behind me. I whip around.
“Excuse me?” I say, staring at the ground and tucking my hair behind my ear.
“I said,smooooth.” She draws out the vowels, ducking to make sure I see every ounce of humor in her gaze.
Embarrassment churns through every inch of my body.
“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I grumble, turning to the sink and flicking on the water.
Diksha lets out a wistful sigh. “Sure ya don’t, babe.” She grabs some of the plates, scraping off scraps of food into the garbage can.
I try to focus on washing the dishes, but I can’t shake the image, the fantasy, of Opal creating those pots. Her hands tracing over the curves, touching every inch. Pinching the nipples to sharp points, dragging the pads of her thumbs across the underside of the breasts. And then it isn’t clay. It’s Opal’s hands on skin, trailing down, my body shivering below the touch. Then it’s her mouth, following the path, rewiring circuits. What would it be like to have those beautiful hands touch me?
“So are you going to do it?” Diksha asks, nudging me aside to deposit more dishes in the sudsy sink.
