He liked his fingers.
Long and thin. Skilful and sure. Efficient and elegant.
Tuning his body like an instrument and playing it with virtuoso's skill. Worshipping every square of his skin as a priest of some pleasure god, bed as an altar, each cry of ecstasy a hymn to the deity.
Treading softly through his hair, too early in the morning, not wanting to wake him and yet unable to restrain himself from touching.
Holding his hand tightly, entwined with his own fingers, as if saying 'I'm here with you'.
Supporting and steadying him – his own anchor to reality.