He couldn't help himself, his fingers kept softly playing with her face or hands. When she wrinkled her nose he chuckled, tapping it. Most artists could curse themselves for never being able to create what their mind saw. She was a miracle in itself.
It may have been strange for her at first, being thrown into this world so suddenly, but the entire time he had worked on her he talked to her. The city thought he was crazy, talking to himself. But, even as that blank slab of ivory he had petted and spoke to her as if she were already real. Maybe that had been where the real magic was. So when she was born to him as a real woman, he already knew every curve of her body. It might have seemed like some sick sexual fantasy to others, but to Pygmalion she was pure.
His hands were the hands of an artist, with worn down finger pads, a few callouses where he would work to hard. Sometimes his fingers would bleed because he gripped his tools too tight, but when he handled his work it was with the softest touch.
"I'm glad," he smiled. Her rejection wouldn't have crushed him but he would have been upset. He moved in, nose nudging hers while he stole another kiss.
The maids finished plating what Galatea had asked for but they found themselves stopping to stare at the pair. She had never been like that around anyone. Not that they had ever seen.