Everytime We Touch Novels & Stories

The space between us feels electric, charged with six years of unspoken words and unresolved tension. Slowly—so slowly it might be unconscious—our pinkies brush against each other. The contact is feather-light. Barely there. But it sends a jolt through me like I've been shocked. I hear her inhale sharply. Neither of us pulls away. My pinkie slides against hers more deliberately now. Then my ring finger follows. Then my middle finger. It's torture. Sweet, agonizing torture. Not quite holding hands but not quite not holding hands either. Just this slow, deliberate touching that's making my heart race and my palms sweat.

Our touches become more passionate, a silent conversation of desire and longing that speaks louder than words. I pull back slightly, my gaze locking with his. "Let’s not think about anything else tonight… Just us." I whisper and he nods, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and affection. Slowly, we start to explore each other with a tenderness that feels both new and familiar. Our movements are slow and deliberate, each touch a reminder of the love we share. The warmth of his body against mine and the intensity of our connection create a cocoon of intimacy that shields us from the outside world.

It was the careful silence of two people standing too close to a fire. I reached for the sugar bowl, which was on his side of the table. As I stretched my arm out, he moved his hand at the exact same moment to reach for the newspaper. Our fingers brushed. It was just a split second, a warm, soft contact between the pads of our fingers. But the simple touch was electric. It was a complete shock that reminded me of the taste of his mouth, the softness of his lips, the terror in his eyes when he pulled away.

I said, taking the croissant from his hand. There was a spark between us, and we stared at each other momentarily. This wasn’t the first time there were sparks between us. Every now and then, when we touch, whether it’s a hug or an accidental tap, I would feel little sparks through my body. I could never tell if he felt the same thing. Though as soon as they arrived, they went away. It was as if it was a mistake.

His other hand reaches my throat and just the way he used to, he strokes the length of my neck with his thumb and my entire body becomes electrified because of his touch. Fuck... Why does it always feel so good being touched by him?

I expected the same electricity that ran through us when we shook hands to come back, but it didn’t. To be honest, I missed it. It was soothing yet intense. I was disappointed, but it also made me curious. Why did we react that way? It wasn’t the first time I touched her—I did when I saved her from Jake—so why wasn’t the spark there? Was it because that was the first time we touched her when she was conscious? That was the only probable reason.

The book I was holding crashed to the floor, and I flinched because it was a new book and I would hate it if it got any scratches or worse, got torn. I grumble out in frustration, annoyed at my carelessness and his sudden stop before bending down to pick the book, except Zion had bent down at the same time, and we reached for the book together, so our hands touched, and I jolted away from the current that flows from our hands at the touching point.

It was the first friendly touch from the man that I was so comfortable of. And after that, it was Xavier whose touch made me realize that I could feel something else from his touches. Something so much heavenly and something so much beautiful. I know I love his touches. Whenever he touches me, caresses me and takes care of me, I want him to do it more. I want him to touch me more, to caress me more and to take care of me more that I never get tired but I don’t feel something good about this. I feel weird.

I have never been attracted to guys with big muscles. Now, I’m reminded of the static shock I felt when we shook hands at the meeting. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a sensation quite like it. Is it strange that I want to touch him again to test a theory? I really shouldn’t call it static, because statis hurts, but this definitely didn’t hurt.

I pull onto the ends of his hair, earning a low groan from him. As we continue to be lost in each other's warmth and touch, we barely even notice how we're already skin to skin—with nothing in between. For some reason, my cold skin finds comfort with his warm body. We manage to enjoy every touch and every movement; without realising with what we're dealing with.