(Note: this actually happened, but for some reason, the writer in me opted to add it to my diary in third person. Disassociating, maybe?)

He called her name once, twice, then was silent. She approached him cautiously, hesitating uncertainly. he said her name again in a voice so husky it could pull a dog sled, and she moved forward, scared but drawn by his tone. he lay motionless on top of the bed, fully unclothed, and her breath caught in her throat. he gazed up at her, unselfconscious, his blue eyes cloudy with many layers of vision--soothing, claming, needing, trusting. He held out one strong, long-fingered hand, and she took it, squeezing ever so gently. As he pulled her forward, she knelt down beside the bed. Neither of them spoke, he not needing to, she not daring to. He guided her hand to his lips, kissed her palm lightly, then rested it on his cheek, easily and slowly rubbing it back and forth; when he let go, her hand continued the caress unguided. She felt the stubble of a four day growth of beard, and beneath that the strong cheekbone.  She let her palm rest near the cleft of his firm chin, and her thumb casually brushed his full red lips-moist velvet ribbons that lightly nuzzled her thumb. His eyes closed, but she knew he was aware of her actions. Just testing her, just testing himself. She brought her hand up to his brow; her fingers fluttered delicately across his forehead; then she brushed his hair back with her fingers forming a makeshift comb that slid effortlessly through the soft blonde tresses. Letting instinct guide her, she sought out his left ear, touching the golden earring nestled in the lobe as a butterfly touches a flower.  One finger trailed down his neck, feeling corded muscle there that tensed, then quickly relaxed.  She found the hard ridge of his collarbone and traced it until she reached his shoulder, which she squeezed--not too hard--once, twice, three times, massaging gently. She found a healing bruise on the inside of his upper arm, and she cautiously circled it with one fingertip, then wandered down to his elbow, which was bent slightly. She felt his strong pulse as two fingers exerted soft pressure in the crook of his arm.  For a long moment she rested there, wondering if he'd say anything--he didn't.
She continued down his arm, rubbing back and forth, feeling dark hair under her touch, seeing the strong lines of muscle interwoven with arteries and veins pulsing below the soft skin of his inner arm. She reached his wrist and braceleted it with her thumb and middle finger; it was slim but strong. Then she found his hand and she interlaced her fingers with his. He squeezed imperceptibly, but enough to confirm his wakefulness. She observed the joints of each finger; she noted the nails, white and shapely and cut short. She turned her hand so that she held all four fingers, then raised the back of his hand for a gentle kiss. As she set his hand back at his side, she briefly touched a small burn scar on his ring finger, red and smooth as satin.
She just looked at him for the next few moments, unsure of what to do next. He unobtrusively raised one leg, bending it slightly at the knee--an unspoken suggestion. She looked up at him, but his eyes were still closed, and he turned away; soft curls of hair fell across his throat. For a moment she was indecisive, then decided that if he would trust her actions, she must trust his reactions.  Her hand stole around his ankle as she observed the strong, almost elegant arch of his slim foot. His calves were dark with hair, but as she stroked his leg, her fingers found cords of hard dancer's muscle overlapping one another, and flexing slightly at her touch.
When she reached his knee, she rested again, her palm barely resting on the hard bone, and when she resumed her upward caress, her hands were shaking. A nerve twitched in him as she felt his inner thight, and she heard the sharp intake of his breath. Less hair here, for of a finde down really; her hand revelled in softness. But here, as it was with his calf, she felt the strong interplay of muscle just below the surface, barely restrained despite his manner of total relaxation.
Cautiously she touched his hip and crossed the girdle of flesh just above his pelvis. his muscles quivered. After a brief but meaningful pause, she cradled his genitalia in her hand. Soft, in repose, but she didn't linger to see if there was any change. This was an exercise in love, not lust. She brought her hand a way with infinite care, then traced the hair that began in crisp curls at the base of his penis and then grew softer and more luxurious over his stomach. She ran her finger around his navel, then in concentric circles outwards, feeling the softness of his skin, the velvet of the dark hair. She found his chest, pressed both palms down on it, felt his breathing, felt his heartbeat, felt his life. She brushed over his nipples and felt them harden in an instinctual physiological response. It didn't mean much, and she didn't care. Then her hands were back on his throat, pushing his hair back, tracing his Adam's apple, finding his pulse. He seemed to be sleeping now. She smiled as he snored softly. She cupped his face in her hands. His long eyelashes fluttered briefly and his eyes opened, wide and smiling. She took her hands in his and just held them for a long time. Then, in a voice barely audible, he murmured, "if only all the hands that touch could feel." She pulled away then and left the room, confused as always by him, and, also as always, assuming she'd done the wrong thing. He didn't follow her; he never would.