My hands miss you
Please let me touch you; please let me press my hands against your skin till it turns flush. Your skin responds so well to my touch, fingers tracing lines along the curve of your hip. My hands miss you; they miss the way your skin feels underneath their calloused tips. So soft, so warm. They miss those spots where, when probed, you yelp with pain and groan with delight as they grind into muscle.
My hands miss you; miss the smell of your skin that lingers on them for days afterwards.
Let me rest my palm on the curve of your neck and feel you shiver as I wrap my fingers menacingly around you. Let me hurt you with them, striking your with savage fury and hungry abandon. My hands miss the way you let them hurt you, the way your shoulders roll open, eager to accept another blow. The way your teeth clinch and eyes blaze when I take your breast in my hand and clamp down, forearms flexed and veins popping, till you can’t take any more and drop to your knees before me.

I know I have a whole bag full of rope here, but I’d much rather pin you down and hold you close to me. Pressing tight in blind desire till I leave perfectly shaped fingertip bruises in your upper arms.

My hands miss holding you, petting you while you gasp and shake. Thumbs stroking the curve of your eyebrow and line of your mouth.

Sure, they are sore after a long day and yes sometimes I wince when I make a fist, but all this is forgotten the moment I touch you.

My hands miss you.