I've always been fascinated by the power of touch. Fingers, hands, legs, any skin on skin contact has always been remarkable for me.
But it's her touch that captivates me most.
It's her soft red hair, the simple freckles that decorate her body like beads of sweat—they are that common, you know—the way her fingers ghost over my cheeks or my ribs that drag me in. She is the only and most addicting drug in my life. Without her touch, I think I may surely fade away.
It's the palms of her hands, the calloused ones from holding those brooms for so many years, that run themselves down my back, over my stomach, the hands that make my tremble and ache. She doesn't know she has such an affect on me, I am sure of it, and I don't intend on letting her in.
It would ruin the magical feel she gives me. It's strange how much that magic exists, the magic that flows between our chests and our fingers, our hands. It's captivating when she holds me, when my face is pressed easily against her shoulder as it always is.
It's…"Miraculous."
