His hand closed sympathetically on her bare forearm, and as she looked down to greet his eyes she saw in them surprise and delight.
“Say, ain't your skin cool though,” he said. “Now me, I'm always warm. Feel my hand.”
It was warmly moist, and she noted microscopic beads of sweat on his forehead and clean-shaven upper lip.
“My, but you are sweaty.”
She bent to him and with her handkerchief dabbed his lip and forehead dry, then dried his palms.
“I breathe through my skin, I guess,” he explained. “The wise guys in the trainin' camps and gyms say it's a good sign for health. But somehow I'm sweatin' more than usual now. Funny, ain't it?”
She had been forced to unclasp his hand from her arm in order to dry it, and when she finished, it returned to its old position.
“But, say, ain't your skin cool,” he repeated with renewed wonder. “Soft as velvet, too, an' smooth as silk. It feels great.”
Gently explorative, he slid his hand from wrist to elbow and came to rest half way back. Tired and languid from the morning in the sun, she found herself thrilling to his touch and half-dreamily deciding that here was a man she could love, hands and all.
“Now I've taken the cool all out of that spot.” He did not look up to her, and she could see the roguish smile that curled on his lips. “So I guess I'll try another.”