“‘I’ve the hands of a bricklayer,’ he said, laughing a little as I passed my lips lightly over the roughened knuckles and the still-sensitive tips of his long fingers.
‘Calluses on a man’s hands are deeply erotic,’ I assured him.
‘Are they, so?’ His free hand passed lightly over my shorn head and down the length of my back. I shivered and pressed closer to him, self-consciousness beginning to be forgotten. My own free hand roamed down the length of his body, toying with the soft, wiry bush of his hair, and the damply tender, half-hard cock.
He arched his back a little, then relaxed.
‘Well, I’ll tell ye, Sassenach,’ he said. ‘If I havena got calluses there, it’s no fault of yours, believe me.’”
