Karen's BBC Electrician

I stood in the dusty quiet of my pottery studio, the afternoon light slanting through the high windows and catching on the half-finished pieces that lined the shelves. At thirty-two, I had built a modest name for myself selling stoneware at local galleries, but this deadline was different. The kiln had died overnight, right when I needed it most. My husband, David, was three states away on a week-long business trip, leaving me alone with a cold kiln and a mounting panic. I’d already called three electricians. Only one could come the same day.

When the doorbell rang, I wiped clay dust from my sundress and hurried through the house. The man waiting on the porch was nothing like the middle-aged repairmen I’d pictured. Marcus was tall, easily six-four, with broad shoulders that strained the navy company polo stretched across his chest. His skin was a rich, deep brown that seemed to drink in the sunlight, and the short sleeves revealed powerful, corded arms. He carried a heavy toolkit like it weighed nothing. When his dark eyes met mine, something electric snapped in the air between us. I felt it low in my belly, a sudden, unmistakable pulse of heat.

“Mrs. Harper?” His voice was a low, smooth rumble. “I’m Marcus. You called about a kiln?”

I swallowed, aware that my nipples had tightened against the thin cotton of my dress. “Yes. Please, come in. The studio’s out back.”

He followed me through the house, and I could feel his gaze on the sway of my hips. By the time we stepped into the bright, clay-scented studio, the tension was already humming like a live wire. Marcus set his toolbox down beside the big electric kiln and crouched to inspect the control panel, the fabric of his work pants pulling tight across his thick thighs. I hovered nearby, trying not to stare at the way his biceps flexed as he removed the cover.

“Looks like a bad relay and some degraded wiring,” he said after a few minutes. He glanced up at me, and his full lips curved into a slow smile that made my knees feel weak. “You’ve got some beautiful work here. That vase on the wheel especially. The lines are… sensual.” His eyes drifted deliberately from the pottery to the curve of my waist and hips. “Kind of like the woman who made it.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I should have laughed it off. Instead, I heard myself say, “It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that.”

Marcus straightened to his full height, towering over me. The studio suddenly felt smaller, warmer. “Your husband’s a lucky man. If you were mine, I’d make sure you never forgot how fucking gorgeous you are.”

The confession slipped out before I could stop it. “He’s away all week. And even when he’s here… it’s been months since I felt anything close to what I’m feeling right now, just standing next to you.”