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Summary
His hand is dead when you take it in yours. Limp and cold. Your thumb and index finger wrap around his wrist, the rest of your fingers settling on his knuckles, as you guide him to your clit. You’re already wet, have been since you got home. You shiver on impact, his mouth agape as he watches, and you moan, only half from the cold.
“Your hands are freezing,” you slur, standing on your tip toes involuntarily trying to escape the chill.
“But you can handle it?”