I love his hands.
He uses them so
expressively, I'm not sure he would be able to talk without
them. Those long, graceful
fingers that are equally at home typing away on
his
laptop, or running through my hair.
I love to touch them.
They're callused
and worn, fingernails chewed down to nubs, but they belong
to him and that makes them
infinitely more precious. His touch at times
has
been all that has grounded
me. When my senses spiral out of control, one
touch
from his hand brings them back, brings me back.
He touches me.
Feather-light
caresses that skim over my brow, thumb caressing my lips,
slipping inside to feed me
its salty taste. His hands glide down my
throat,
tracing a wet path across
my chest. They pause for a moment, resting over
my
heart, and I know he is feeling it beat inside my chest.
My heart beats for him, because of him.
His hands journey
on, down over my stomach to wrap around my hip bones. The
edges of his fingers just
touch my behind and his thumbs rest in the hollow
where my legs join my body.
He rests then, thumbs gently moving in a light
caress that almost tickles.
He leans down, his unbound hair floating over
me,
caressing me as gently as his fingers.
I feel his breath.
It puffs over my
skin until I can imagine the feel of his lips, gliding
warm
and
moist, as they settle around me, suckling me to completion.
Still, his hands hold me, anchor me.