Soft Under My Hands

She pressed her hands flat to his chest to feel the fire — and his clay went molten under her palms and kept the shape of her. Ivy Thorne came to the high-desert town of Ashcroft to rent kiln-time and rebuild a life her old mentor tried to steal out from under her. What she did not plan on was the forge-keeper — Soren Veld, seven feet of warm fired clay, centuries old, and absolutely convinced he's a tool instead of a man. So she does the obvious thing. She treats him like a person. She asks what he likes. She watches his seams brighten gold every time he forgets to hide it. Because Soren can't hide it. The more he wants her, the hotter his core burns, and his body tells the truth his mouth won't — clay softening under her touch, fingerprints held warm on her hips for hours, a forge-thrum she can feel through her own ribs. He swears he has it under control. He's built himself a careful little system to prove he can be near her safely. He's wrong. And the night his control finally fails, a hairline crack opens down his side — and the warmest man Ivy's ever met banks his fire, locks the yard, and leaves her a note telling her to find a safer kiln. She is not going anywhere.