Hands

His hands are long. Long and pale with a light coating of golden hair across the knuckles of his fingers. His fingers are slim but not boney. They are elegant in the way he holds his quill, precise in the way he smooths his hair, frightening in the way he holds his wand. They are nervous in the way he smooths his robes and calming in the way they sit, cradled in his lap. And they are gentle across my skin, tracing the features of my face, trailing lightly down my hip. The pads of his fingers are just slightly callused from gripping the wood of his broom, but their roughness adds to their gentle beauty.

I kiss each finger, each slim knuckle, each clean cut nail. I taste the skin of his thumb and watch as his other hand trembles. The palm of his hand is soft and smooth and I trace his life line with my tongue and tell him he will live forever. His palm slides to my cheek to cradle it, gentle and caring. They flinch and spasm before they are buried in my hair, clenched tight against my scalp. His nails scratch and his fingers pull until his hands are no longer in my hair but on my robes, slowly unbuttoning each button. I touch him and his fingers shake before they begin clawing and ripping at my clothes, no longer slow in his need.

Finally his fingers are on my skin leaving a trail of heat down my chest. His hands should be cool like his eyes but they are like fire, like molten heat against my skin. They burn with a raw intensity and I can almost feel my skin melt against them. Each digit moves across the slight ripples of my chest. His index finger drops down to trace a circle around my belly button. The hands fly back up, ghosting against my skin, slowing down to rub a thumb over my nipples. He pinches and tweaks and rubs until I'm panting and shaking from his touch. I smile as a shudder runs through him all way to his finger tips which are slightly pink. His hands flutter until they reach my back. They glide across the plains of my shoulders and slip down my spine.

And then they become claws, digging into my back, pulling me closer, deeper. They scratch a path across my skin, they rip and shed it from my bones, ferocious and demanding. I know they will leave welts and blisters in their wake but that doesn't matter because at this moment they are touching me.

One hand slips back up to borrow in my hair as the other continues it's brutal play across my back. My hair is pulled, my scalp is scraped but the feeling is as welcomed as a soft caress. And then both hands are on my shoulders pushing and pulling me, embedding nails into my flesh. One palm smooths to my neck and then slides to cradle my face. His thumb touches the corner of my lips and my tongue flicks out to taste it. He lets me slowly draw the digit into my mouth and I suckle it. Its weight against my tongue is nice. It taste of salt and slightly of the chocolate he had after dinner. It is sweet and soft and it is his, so it is hard and sharp as the nail slices against my tongue. Slowly he pulls it from my mouth and traces my lips until they are moist with my own saliva.

And then the hands freeze but it is only for a moment, then they are squeezing, holding on for dear life. I shudder and shake beneath their hold until I am still. The hands wrap around me. They are gentle, stroking my back and hips and neck and arms in quiet caresses. He swirls one lovely finger along my back. Harry, he traces with his finger and I feel myself melt under his soft touch. Soon, however, the hands are still.

They lay between us against my chest. The sight of his pale, almost ghostly hands against my bronze skin is enticing and arousing. I pick them up and cradle them within my own. I bring them to my lips to kiss each burning finger tip. I blow cool air against them and breath his name upon them, Draco.

I study them, every slight bump and ghost of hair until I think I know them better than my own. I kiss each palm and close my eyes, imprinting them into my mind. His hands.

Fin