His hands are fascinating. Every scar is visible to the naked eye, rough around the edges but smooth in the center; big and small marks mar every inch. His touch is calloused, the hard bumps build more from the toughening skin and labor.
But he was not rough, despite the conditions that his hands were in. They grasped hers; smooth and flawless.
Her hands were pale, the blue veins were evident. She could feel how her pulse increased when they touched. It felt more apparent in her hands, her heartbeat, but maybe it was from her squeezing. The circulation was cut off, reddening under their flesh, until they recited a holy palmers kiss.
His hands, how gentle they are. Pulling her into a kiss, tangling a strand of her golden hair around his knobby fingers, and holding her body tightly to his. Her clothes wrinkle and crease, her hair is mussed, but their fingers remain entwined.
They speak through their hands, why use words when touch is more intimate?
They communicate, “Touch me tender.”