All this time, he'd thought it wouldn't be any different to have someone else's hand on him. Why would it, when he could just do it himself? But Molly's hand finding his cock makes his heart pound and his skin burn. Because that's a hand he's seen make neat incisions; it's a hand that's slapped his face and covered his own to comfort him.

He makes a high, breathy sound.

And somehow through the fog he finds there's something else he needs, something more than her hand. His fingers slide back and forth, learning the textures that match the anatomical names.

Outer labia, parting easily as he spreads his fingers. He moves them higher, purposeful. Prepuce.

Clitoris.

"Molly," he whispers, craning his neck to kiss her.