A slender swell of flesh under honey hued skin. I exhaled so slowly it sounded like a moan. The cinnamon danced in the early morning sunlight and drifted onto his upturned hand, looking like a dusting of gentle freckles. I caught my tongue between my teeth to subdue the urge to slowly slide it across his palm, and lick them off.
The curve of flesh at the base of his thumb ran in a seductive arc to the delicate bones of his wrist, and I needed to see his ink-black hairs laid against my skin. Watching his hands dance amongst the steam of the machine bewitched me more than a hundred flirtations ever could, and I wanted them in places I shouldn’t even be thinking about this early in the morning.
I have no idea about the rest of him. When he handed me my coffee, wound those mesmerising fingers around the silver coins, I never thought to look up.
I didn’t need to.
© bellmusker 2007
It’s not easy having a wrist fetish when you’re half awake and just want your morning coffee…..if men only knew what the sight of their wrists can do to a woman.
Well, this woman.
Inspired by a conversation at a Melbourne Writers’ Meeting.