Touch
She feels cloth, rough, bunched in her fingers as she's tugging it up so that she can skim them over silk skin underneath.
She runs her hands up his back, tracing outlines of shoulder blades, trailing fingertips around and up, cupping shoulders, sliding down to biceps hard like marble but still covered in that same sweat-slicked silk that is his skin.
Silk.
No one told her boys felt like that.
But they do.
Fingertips slowing, trailing further down to his waist, frustrated by contact with the rough cloth again.
No one told her boys trembled like that.
But they do.