Firmly Grasp It Novels & Stories

He grips my shoulder, forcing me to meet his gaze, the weight of his unyielding conviction tethering me to the moment. He's right, god, he's utterly right; we would do that.

I grаbbеd mу clutch, ѕlірріng my аrm thrоugh hіѕ. “Sweetie, I’m planning оn it.”

I offer mine to the two partners, dry and brief. Then comes his turn. He extends his hand. I offer mine, aiming for the requisite, polite limpness. His fingers close around it. The warmth is immediate, crushing. His grip is not firm. It is… possessive. He doesn't shake my hand. He holds it. His thumb strokes, once, slowly, across my knuckle. A deliberate, meaningful touch. A contact that says: I am touching you. Here. In front of them all. And you can do nothing.

Into her. He closed the distance in a single decisive step and seized her upper arm—firm, unyielding, not violent but absolute. His other hand came to her waist, still large even as his beast-form had begun to recede slightly, claws less curved but strength undiminished. The contact grounded her with brutal clarity. His grip spoke in pressure and heat: here. now. mine to hold. Heat flooded back into her awareness of him. The upward pull faltered. “That is enough.”

I knew it was futile, but I kept trying to go after him anyway. The grip of 12 large hands held me firmly in place, no matter how hard I tried to break free of their grasp. I’d already burned through most of the adrenalin that had fueled my earlier success, and without it, there was no hope for me. Eventually my body sagged in their hold, defeated.

Jeffrey had no hope of evading Victor's grasp. Jeffrey saw a blur, and next thing he knew, his fist was already completely under Victor's control. Jeffrey tried to pull his fist back, but it wouldn't budge. He then tried to forcibly bump Victor away, but failed. Victor's grip was like a vice, firmly holding onto his fist and wouldn't let go.

"There is no *this*. You're overthinking." A dark, bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. I pushed off the counter and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, my grip tight and unforgiving, bunching the cotton in my fists. He gasped, his large hands flying up to grip my wrists, but he didn't push me away. He just held on, his long fingers digging into my skin like anchors.

“If this marriage is going to work between us, there’s one thing I want to make very clear.” It feels like my heart lurches from my chest in anticipation. The air feels electrified between us as I wait for him to finish his thought. “And that is?” His fingers tighten on my jaw. The way he grabs me is possessive. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to turn my head away from him. He’s making sure that with whatever he’s going to say, I see him and only him.

My entire posture goes rigid, my jaw locking instantly as my wolf hits the surface. "What are you holding in your hand?" The demand leaves my throat steady but dripping with pure heat. And people wonder why I don't play nice with the lower ranks. Every single time I soften my grip, it comes back to bite me. His dark brows knit together as his eyes drop down to my property, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

I tried to back away, but he grabbed my arm tightly and pulled me towards him. "Come with me," he said, his voice low and menacing. I tried to resist, but his grip was too strong. I could feel his fingers digging into my skin, leaving bruises that would later serve as a reminder of his possessiveness. "No!" I exclaimed, trying to break free from his grasp. But he wouldn't let go. Shraf's expression was a mix of anger and jealousy. His eyes were fixed on me, and I could see the intensity in his gaze. It was as if he was trying to communicate something without speaking a word.