I like to write
I remember his skin.
It was bumpy, scaly, not smooth. Not what I was accustomed to. Yet firm, rough. Like a man’s… a man’s skin of whom I was unfamiliar with. Not my territory.
And I remember how his arms encompassed me. My body, small and frail under his, between those arms and his chest, over me.
I ran my hands over those arms and forearms. They were inked up with tattoos—something else I wasn’t accustomed to. And I wanted them to hold me like that forever. To just have me between them, touching me and carressing me.
Our eyes locked. We didn’t have to say anything. It was like a moment of magic. Magic.