In the beginning I was far too shy and tangled up inside to ever meet Daren’s eyes, so at first I just watched his hands. I fell in love with them before I ever knew his name and long before I summoned the courage to strike up some sort of stilted, stumbling conversation. I’d sit with my coffee and watch from across the café as he raised his own cup to his lips, the cuff of his sleeve pulling back just enough to reveal a sliver of thin, pale wrist. I felt like a voyeur but I couldn’t help myself; even that small glimpse sent a thrill down my spine and I couldn’t look away until I’d memorized every graceful curve and line. I’d watch those slender fingers slide around the cup and imagine them twisting through my hair, brushing over my mouth, digging into my skin as they pulled me close. I envied that cup for the sensations it could never appreciate yet for which I longed every night.

I was obsessed, I’ll admit. But I was right, too. Daren’s hands were certainly worth pining for all those hours and days and weeks. Now that they’re mine, or I theirs I suppose, withheld desire is merely foreplay. Of course, every second and minute is still torture – just one I’m willing to suffer.

[ On an unrelated but related note, I’m in such a hard core slump that I kind of want to just crawl into a hole and die. Uurrrrgghhh. ]


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