He caressed me in a way that made me feel chagrined. Skin-on-skin contact had always been maligned. I had always felt the crudeness of the people around me reflected in their angry touch. Thus, despite my own reflection disdain, I continued to let Richter slather his hands over my body.
For such large hands, war-hardened with the callouses and against his wrists were dark twisted marks, inked tattoos of magic that I couldn't read. My fingers of my free hand hesitated to reach out to him and in a moment of confidence, I brushed some hair out of his eyes. Shakily, I tucked it behind his ear as he peered up at me.
"Thank you," I chimed sweetly, "Thank you."
Thank you for not hurting me.
