It was the most peculiar sensation. He wondered if she knew just how odd it was. He had woken that morning to her tracing her finger across his back. There was no pattern to it. Sometimes she outlining the scars, or followed the contour of his spine or wove a dancing pattern along his ribs. He had had to relax further to stop himself from laughing at how that tickled.
However, what amazed him was the way she seemed to be exploring each of his old wounds. It was as if she were not afraid of them, as if she accepted that they were part of him, as though they did not disgust her. He took a deep breath as tears pricked at his eyes. He had never had someone find them fascinating. The doctors examined them indifferently their only response was except to tell him to keep them limber, recommending anything from various creams, to massage, to exercise. His brother used them against him in mockery for what he stood for, and he had been stubborn enough to take a perverse pride in them because of that. But he had never considered them to be fascinating, as the time and care she took in her exploration of the damaged flesh seemed to imply.
The sensation from her fingers was tantalising, yet at the same time strange in the vulnerability it induced. There were portions around the scars where the nerves were slightly deadened, and these numb places made it feel as though she were stroking him through layers of cloth. But when her exploring touch ran over the seams of scars themselves, he tensed instinctively, even the lightest touch to such a sensitive place registered almost as pain. It was pain, but a long healed pain with sensitive nerves to remind him of the slight weakness of the skin there, and of the necessity to protect it. Then there were the broad swathes of scar tissue, some of it hard and stretched, others soft. She seemed to enjoy lightly drawing her nails over the hardened portions, and he was surprised at how that allowed him to feel the area with extra sensitivity as her nails running over the slight ridges and bumps seemed to vibrate into the skin around it. He clenched his fist at the sensation, as it was an extraordinarily frustrating one, his body responded to it as if he should avoid it, or at least find a way to dissipate it. Then she traced the soft areas with the lightest touch and he gave up on pretending to sleep. It felt as though he could feel the sensation in two places. It was as if there were a thin layer of liquid between where she touched him on the outer layer of skin and the sensitive flesh underneath. He pressed his face into the pillow and groaned.
She snatched her hand away.
"Did I hurt you?"
He could feel the fading touch as the warmth her fingers had traced now cooled. He turned to gaze at her pale worried face in the dim predawn light. How did he explain what she did to him? She made him want to run from her touch, to dissipate the frustration with hard exercise and a cold shower. To protect himself. No. He had another option now, a harder one. He had to endure through the frustration, but it was certainly the more pleasurable option. He smiled and drew her towards him; amazed, yet again, at how silky her skin was. If she could tantalise him with her touch, then he was more than willing to return the favour.