There's something about a good man's hands...
It matters not what work they do.
Rough or soft, scarred, thick or thin.
Ever so gently, yet firm, cupped around my face.
Confident and strong, drawing me toward him.
Tender, shielding, sharing.
Fingers under my chin, holding steady while his thumbs,
caressing, stroke across my cheeks... as if a cherished gift.
Closer still, my lips are warmed by his even before they
finally touch. Lightly. Briefly.
Then barely back away, returning slowly to kiss only
my lower lip.
Languishing there a bit, pulling it softly between his teeth.
Just enough to make me moan, quietly.
He is doing it all. I accept and blush warm.
Nothing touches except his hands and lips. Yet, it is total
giving and submitting. Eager but restrained.
The tiniest details explored with care, over and over again.
If it happens only once, it will still last forever, because
I can remember.