Touch: or, The Absence of It

His hand was larger than hers, his warm palm slightly rough against hers, his long fingers settled in the spaces between her own. A pinprick of fire marked the place where each of his fingertips brushed the back of her hand as his thumb stroked the skin of her inner wrist. She had never known her flesh to be so sensitive and each point of contact made her crave another.
The fingers of his free hand traced the shape of her nose, the curve of her cheekbone and the point of her chin. They danced along the slope of her neck and the curve of her shoulder. She did not know that the shoulder could feel or appreciate a touch so delicate. The craving increased, a crushing desire, devouring all thought, all the world beyond the sensation of skin against skin. They breathed simultaneously bringing their chests together. Her eyes dropped shut and he brought his hand to her face once more, his thumb brushing her closed eyelid. The blue tracery over white bearing more beauty than a butterfly's wing.
Her mouth formed a soft pink pout and finally he bent to press his own lips against hers, that most pure and lovely of touches.
But when she woke, his presence previously so warm and sure and solid, faded to smoke and memory. Gone all the quicker for her desperate attempts to grasp it. Her chest heaved in a sob and she ached for absence of his touch.