Where the cuffs of his shirt and jacket ended
his broad hands lay still, clean, short-nailed,
on his lap. She knew the feel of his finger-
tips and how they could spread warmth
through her body, make her tremble.
Under the dark wool of his jacket she was
intensely aware of the bones of his shoulders,
remembered the smooth feel of his skin.
She knew the curve of his muscles and the
ripple that flexed as he took his weight.
Ah, took his weight, he was good at that.
He was a man like no other she’d known.
The vein that stood out on his forehead,
the evening stubble, rough on her cheek,
lips strong, soft, urgent. And the weight.