Hands

A Story by Caitlin

One of the first things you noticed about him when the two of you met were his hands. He was shy, unbelievably so. Fidgety. He wouldn't know eye contact if it punched him in the mouth. But his hands, his hands were the only thing that seemed to have a life of their own, the only things that weren't shy.

You had watched as he nervously adjusted his sweater, his fingers gripping the bottom and tugging like it was a nervous tic. You wouldn't have been surprised if it actually was something he didn't notice he was doing. He brushed a stray piece of hair out of his hazel eyes, his fingers combing it back into place.

He spoke with his hands; gesticulating wildly as he spoke with fervor, tapping his chin or his leg while deep in thought, rubbing his thumbs back and forth across his large palms in a stim, clenching his upper arms when nervous. His hands spoke a language all of their own.

They were hands that were graceful, unlike the man they were attached to, a man who could stumble over thin air when distracted. They could produce quarters out of thin air, do sleight of hand without any hesitation, and move like a humming bird on a warm summer's day. You desperately wanted to know how they would move across your skin.

His hands could leave trails of fire in their wake when they danced across your heated flesh. You were wholly convinced that they were magical, and that they held some sort of power that you knew not. Goose pimples could arise on your skin within moments of his fingers trailing across your abdomen.

Your mind is loaded with the flesh memory of his fingers, dancing across your lips, dipping into your collarbone and dragging across your thighs. Of them illiciting pleasure that you had never known before and had never known possible.

You're not sure who you love more,

him or his hands.