I like his hands. I like the lack of warmth, how they are so

I like his hands. I like the lack of warmth, how they are so cold and dry against my heated palm. I like how, gradually, they begin to warm from the radiation of my own nervous hands, and how he doesn't let go when my palm begins to slip with sweat. I like the sublte way in which he grasps my wrist, and how he will place my hand into his jacket pocket, so we can bask in the comfort of a secret. I like his hands, the roughness of his palm and the blue defintion of his veins, but I like them especially when they are holding mine.