These are the hands of a thief on his skin; they trail down his belly like mist. They don’t poke or prod, though he might have expected it of her; he doubted whether their usual antagonism would get left at the door tonight, but her nails barely graze him.
These hands lift jewels from casings as smoothly as he chambers a round, and more lightly. They catch hold of him, but the grip is like satin, like foam. In her hand he’s all heat and flesh and unspent juices, but there’s nothing in her touch that’s going to help him spend them. She holds him like she’d hold some piece of fruit, delectable but easily bruised. She gloats over him like she would money. She teases him with one long silky stroke of her thumb, and he shudders, and her smile stretches wider.
There are far worse things done to a man than poke at his tender places, and she’s going to do every one of them to him.