Firmly Grasp It Novels & Stories

Her determination to escape the conversation was evident as she tried to free herself from my grip. I stood my ground, unwavering in my determination to understand what was going on with Blaire. My grip remained firm as I replied with a sense of urgency, "No, until you talk, you're not going anywhere." The situation was too concerning to let it slide, and I needed to get to the bottom of it.

It is so tight I just hold it there for a minute.

I couldn't stop. I tried again, this time tightening my grip and focusing all my energy on one sharp, forceful pull. The hinges rattled, but they held firm. A sharp wave of frustration shot through me, but I swallowed it down, clenching my jaws. My heart pounded against my ribs as I shifted my position, adjusting my grip.

My hand tightens on the fridge door handle. I have to get to the bottom of this situation. While we may still be able to control it.

His gaze hardened, a command carved in stone. “And under my control.”

His grip tightened instantly, crushing, as though he could hold me to this world through force alone. “Dare.” The word was a breath. A ghost of sound. “I’m here. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The gesture of someone offering rather than taking, presenting an open hand rather than reaching for what was not yet given. I looked at it for a moment. Then I placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine. Not tightly. Firmly. The specific, warm firmness of someone who has been waiting for something with patience and has now received it and is receiving it correctly, which means without urgency, without the grasping quality of relief, simply with presence. Neither of us spoke.

My grip tightened further and I could feel my hand about to snap his neck off his head. Then—

When he takes it and shakes it, surprisingly and almost unbelievably, I grip his hand tighter. “What’s in it for you?”

Before I could pull my hand away, a broad, calloused grip snapped around my wrist. I gasped, my heart leaping into my throat. The hold on my wrist was iron-clad, completely unyielding. I tried to pull back, but the raw strength behind the grip anchored me to the spot. Slowly, the long, thick eyelashes flutched open.