Chapter 4Touching. A hand. On his arm. Generous and empathetic. And resting there lightly, as if Charlie did not want to intrude, simply wanted to connect.
Lionel stared at the hand. A magnet. Drawing him in. Skin to skin, because he’d shoved up his own sleeves, and Charlie had bare fingers, graceful scholar’s fingers, and they were touching his forearm and Charlie was smiling at him, so open and close—
God. No. This bewildering rush of emotion—of want, of need, of the desire to simultaneously wrap this astounding man up in soft blankets and also unwrap him, deliberately, gradually, with such care, because Charlie was so beautiful and so generous with words and touches and connection, and perhaps in turn Lionel could hold him, could give him such meticulous attention, could make him feel
