I think of his hands as much as I think of his voice, his smile, his eyes, his tongue…
Warm, gentle, soothing…
Hot, firm, demanding…
Hands that mold. Hands that caress. Hands that cradle, massage, knead, pull, tug, stroke.
My breasts fill his hands, and he smiles. His hands pull and tug on my nipples, and I cry out.
His hands cradle my face while he kisses, licks, nips, and bites.
His hands mold my body until I believe I am beautiful.
His hands grab my ass, smacking, marking me temporarily.
His hands cup my pussy, making me glow and hum with pleasure.
His hands run through my hair, soothing and calming me.
His hand holds mine as he brings me to the edge of a cliff. I haven’t come for him yet, but when I do, my hand will be in his, and I will know I am safe.
When I’m alone, it’s his hands I imagine running down my body, caressing my hot, wet center. It’s his fingers on my clit, lazily stroking me. When I press forward, it’s his fingers that move faster and faster, bringing me to ecstasy. His hand brings me to the edge. When I clutch the sheets as I come, it’s his hand I’m holding.
I love his hands.