The defined sinew tantalizes beneath the taut, tan skin. The peaked veins laces into the muscles, ripening with a casual stretch and flex. His arms are held by broad, burly shoulders and end with hands, firm and kind.

He uses them to carry the weight of his long days at work and to grasp a pen between his fingers writing his thoughts out on a napkin he’ll discard a few minutes later.

He uses them when he fumbles for your lithe body in the dark, pulling you into his warm chest, no room for escape.

He uses them when he pulls you from the pier to the boat dock as if you are nothing and he leads you to look into the private yachts as if they are yours.

He uses them to rake his hands through your hair, pulling your lips to closer to his own like you are the air he breathes and his muscles tense as he grips your waist.

He uses them to hold onto the steering wheel of his tan pickup truck, but removes it to swipe a wisp of hair behind your ear with them.

He uses them with every intention, without any meaning, with a purpose, without a thought. He uses them to feel, to move, to know, to think. His arms are part of him and he is part of you.


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