This is what she thinks about, when she thinks about him. She doesn’t think about his eyes, like she likes to tell herself; or about his lips, like she’d tell her friends if they knew about him; or about his cock, like she tells him when she’s in a good mood. She thinks about his hands.
When he wants her, it’s always his hands that go first. Brushing lightly against her face. Sneaking up on her thigh. Massaging the back of her neck, and then inching down over her collarbones to entice her breasts. His hands are smart — smarter than he is, probably — and his hands are sweet when they want to be, and they can make her feel calm and drifty, safe and befriended.
But it isn’t these nice sweet things she thinks about. His hands also do things that make her blush when she remembers, things that make her flinch and quickly look for something to stare at on the floor, convinced that anyone who sees her can read her mind. When she thinks about his hands, these are the things she thinks about.