His Hand

The fires' flickers blur and haze, as the room fills ever more with the smell of woodsmoke, cigar and musky male.
Voices mummer as if from a distance, like hearing a conversation underwater or from another room.
You float through the present, unaware of time. No thoughts are present just peaceful daze.
His hand stroking your hair, tangling its' fingers through the strands, lightly pulling, then soothing. Travelling to your neck and shoulders, moulding, fluttering, digging, massaging down the back.
Leaning into the sensation content with anything his hand will give you, you lean into its warmth. The occasional hard pull, sharp dig, a light tickle as his hand follows an absentminded path.
You know you could spend hours just kneeling here, leaning against his knee or chair with that hand playing as it will.
Fully in the moment and yet out of the present time strand.
There, but absent to all except the heavenly warmth of him.