Her hands are soft and well-manicured, young and graceful with sharp long nails, dark with lacquer and bare;y scraping against his skin, crisp when they brush through the wiry hair on his chest and follow his arms down their length. He isn't unconfident, and hardly unskilled, but he hasn't been with a woman quite this young in months or more, and everything about her puts everything about him in relief.

She lets go of his hands, and his fingers work quickly at her buttons, not with renewed confidence, but with desperate energy. He wants to hold onto it as long as he's able.

He sits up, gripping her hips and tracing the outline of the bone under them with his thumbs. "Do you know how lucky you are?" he asks, mouthing at the delicate skin and structure of her collarbone, feeling the strength of her pulse there against his tongue.