They stood there under the streetlight with their foreheads together. He was holding her head, fingers dug deep at the back of her neck, drawing out slowly through the length of her hair, then digging in again. The indolent moments stretched out like taffy, and he seemed happy to stand there indefinitely, playing with her hair. She was nothing but delighted, lolling with the pleasure of being caressed so perfectly; she only wanted to keep standing there, breathing his air.
“I like your hands,” she finally managed to say.
“Why?” he said.
“They feel good.” She reached up and took his wrists, untangling his reluctant fingers from her tresses. She turned his hands up in hers, studying the calluses on his palms and a small cut on his pinky. “And they look like they can do a lot of things.”
He closed up into fists, and then extended his fingers out again. Slowly she turned the hinge on one of his cufflinks and eased it out of its holes, then undid the other cuff.
“I’ll give them back,” she whispered, sliding the links into her jacket pocket and taking up his uncuffed wrists again.
“Hmm,” he sighed vaguely, his eyes closed, forearms extended, hands surrendered to her. She slid her fingers under his cuffs, bumping over his watch, feeling the softness of the hair on his forearms. Slowly she moved further up his sleeves, stroking his arms, burrowing up to cup his elbows. He sighed again, deep in his chest, with the dreamily content expression of a man who loves to be touched in unexpected ways.