His Hands

BY GRETA CHRISTINA

 

This is what she thinks about, when she thinks about him. She doesn’t think about his eyes, like she likes to tell herself; or about his lips, like she’d tell her friends if they knew about him; or about his cock, like she tells him when she’s in a good mood. She thinks about his hands.

When he wants her, it’s always his hands that go first. Brushing lightly against her face. Sneaking up on her thigh. Massaging the back of her neck, and then inching down over her collarbones to entice her breasts. His hands are smart—smarter than he is, probably—and his hands are sweet when they want to be, and they can make her feel calm and drifty, safe and befriended.

But it isn’t these nice sweet things she thinks about. His hands also do things that make her blush when she remembers, things that make her flinch and quickly look for something to stare at on the floor, convinced that anyone who sees her can read her mind. When she thinks about his hands, these are the things she thinks about.

She thinks about his hands pressing her against the wall, one hand pinning her shoulders, the other sliding up her skirt, pushing between her legs, reaching for her clit like it belongs to him. No, not like it belongs to him. Like a thief. Like he knows it doesn’t belong to him and is taking it anyway.

She thinks about his hands pressing her thighs apart, again like a thief, like a cat burglar opening a window and climbing inside. She thinks about his hand on the back of her neck, his fingers coiling in her hair and tightening; she thinks about his other hand gripping her by the wrist, guiding her own hand between his legs, making her feel his swelling crotch. She thinks about his hands on her arms, shaking, impatient, maneuvering her body into place.

She thinks about his fingers spreading her lips open down there, prying her apart, exposing her clit and studying it fervently as if he’s reading her soul. When he opens her up like that, she feels like he is revealing her soul, like her soul has been hiding in her clit and he’s discovered it at last: her true soul, the selfish one, the dirty one, the one that wants to quit her job and abandon her friends and family and spend the rest of her life on her back, on her hands and knees, pressed against the wall, with his hand between her legs.

She thinks he’s a bad idea. She thinks she doesn’t love him. She thinks that if she loved him, she wouldn’t feel so dirty all the time. She thinks that if she loved him, she’d think about his eyes, his lips, even his cock, at least sometimes. She thinks that if she loved him, she wouldn’t be spending every spare moment thinking about his hands.

She thinks about his hands. And finds her own hand knocking at his door.