His hands. That was the first thing I noticed about him. He had long fingers that were slightly calloused. The skin bore the marks of a man who worked hard. My eyes focused on his hands as he talked. I listened as he talked about his job, his favorite artists, his favorite bands, his favorite writers, his crazy stories about traveling, and, his family. I watched him talk with his hands, effortlessly moving them as he spoke, unaware of how they affected me. I was lost in my thoughts, wondering how they would feel on my skin, moving across my face, cupping my breasts, pinching my nipples, squeezing my ass. Suddenly he reached across the table and touched my hand, jolting me back to the conversation. I was so surprised at how soft his hands were when he touched me. “Are you ready, sweetheart? I was.