A Collection of Short Stories and Poems

Hands

**free write prompt before going to bed**

His hands gripped the beige mug as if to gather every bit of warmth from his spiced orange tea. The heat danced up to the ceiling in little clouds of slithering ghosts and inflamed the slick pink patches of skin that interrupted the regular pattern of his fingertips -- probably from the clumsy slip of a knife along his flesh while cooking dinner for his family's restaurant. A smile peeked over the lip of the dull mug which only seemed to brighten up the golden brown of his irises as his eyelids scrunched together with joy while his feathery brown eyelashes fluttered excitedly. Fingernails tapped hot stoneware as his shivering digits guided it to the tabletop between us with an expected clink. Those hands reach for mine in such a pure way that I could tell he'd been so touch starved ever since our last meet-up in this indie coffee shop. I took his hand in mine if only to see that beautiful smile bloom even more over his face as the pads of his fingers stroked my knuckles gently.

Regardless of how chapped those callused hands really were, I could never look at them without thinking about the tenderness within his touch as his hands brushed the sensitive skin between my thighs with that aroused and flustered blush that constantly asked me "is this alright?" or how they tangled in my hair as he held me to his chest when a scene grew too scary in a horror movie or how his sweet fingertips would linger on my lips before he'd lean into a passionate kiss. No matter how hard and rough his hands grew they'd always become such a godly sort of softness. He could make any man melt with those cautious hands that shook with excitement everytime hot skin touched cold fingers and still, he chose me to care and nurture for.

How could things that were so weathered and crude be the source of my greatest pleasure?