His hands were everywhere—caressing, touching, exploring, setting my skin aflame with every graze of his fingertips. They trailed my body as though he were memorizing every curve, every dip, and every flare. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, yet possessive in a way that left me breathless. It was as if he needed to know every inch of me, to map me out entirely, as though I was the only thing he’d ever truly wanted.
His hands were strong—so firm, so sure. They moved with an expertise that spoke of confidence, a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how he wanted to do it. Each stroke of his palm, each press of his fingertips, felt deliberate, like he was leaving behind an invisible brand that only I could feel.
“You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, his voice low and husky, vibra
