I think about them; dream about them; fantasize about them. I’d once called them a pianist’s fingers: long and slender, delicate almost; incredibly tactile. I want his hands on me, his fingers in me. I want the one with the delicious “come hither” stroke and I want two – or three or four – less precise, pushed, shoved, thrust between my delicate folds, opening me, spreading me, filling me.
I watch his fingers as he holds his glass, curled around a mug, and imagine them curled around my wrist, pulling me to him. I watch him as he brushes his hair back, his fingers tangling in those long curls, and I imagine them tangling in my hair, holding my head in place. A girl that he had had some involvement with before flirted with him rather relentlessly last night, remarking on various things he had done to her or that she had wanted him to do: “Oh, he knows how to pull hair,” she said at one point, leering, and I imagined him pulling mine, wrapping the long strands around his fist. Holding me. Securing me. Anchoring me. In my mind I could feel his knuckles grazing the back of my neck as he tugged me close to him.
Later, I felt his fingers on my thighs, pinching, hard; one place, then another. I imagined him doing that – marking me with bruises up and down the length of my thighs with just his fingers. They may look delicate, those fingers, but they are incredibly strong and leave marks for days.
And still later, we are fooling around bowling and he is showing me how he holds his ball, and I am trying to pay attention because I am supposed to be learning something, but all I can see are his fingers slipping inside those holes, his knuckles sliding in and out, and I bite my lip. It’s been so long since I’ve had his hands on me, his fingers inside me.
I am a little jealous of that fucking ball.