As Professor Bramwell gathered up his notes, I forced myself to ignore the way his muscles bulged at his biceps whenever he bent his arm, or the way he’d rolled up his sleeves to expose the map of veins in his forearms. And those hands. Hands that looked both delicate and barbaric, like they could gently wring the very life out of you. They were handsome hands, with trim nails and strong but slender fingers that I could imagine wielding a scalpel with utmost precision. An artist, no doubt.
