I grit my teeth. I know all about his fingers. I know how warm they are, how rough, how the pads are callused and scraped. I know what they feel like when they’re on my thighs, in my hair, on my pulse. I know. As they talk and talk like they know him, I admit that I’m kind of jealous. It’s been a week since he rescued Art and I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. Not even once.
