Gentle Touch Crossword Clue Novels & Stories

“You don’t know how to be gentle.” “We can learn,” Brandon offered, though his fingers were already moving again, exploring. “No, you can’t. And even if you tried, I’m too sore. I need a break.” “Just a little,” Jackson coaxed, his hand sliding up under the shirt to cup my breast. “We’ll be careful.” “You’re not listening to me.” But my body was already responding despite the soreness, my traitorous nipples hardening under his touch. “We’re listening,” Brandon said, fingers still moving in gentle circles that made me squirm. “You’re just too tempting like this.”

Trey gently brushed away a stray hair from Martina's face with his fingers, tucking it behind her ear. The tender gesture had a soothing effect, causing Martina to instinctively lean into his touch, her palms resting on Trey's broad, taut chest, as they locked eyes.

Every touch, every sigh, every gentle brush of skin against skin is enough to send waves of warmth through me. He smiles softly, almost tenderly. “Then let me,” he murmurs, and I feel the subtle, deliberate movements he uses to draw me to the edge without crossing it, small, controlled pressures, whispered words in my ear, gentle explorations of pleasure that leave me trembling but fully alive.

He knelt between my legs. Gentle. So gentle it almost hurt. He wiped me with slow, tender strokes—first the crease of my thighs, then higher, cleaning the mess we’d made together. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was tending to something fragile and sacred. Every pass of the cloth made me shiver—oversensitive, still tingling—but he never rushed. Never made it clinical. He kept his eyes on mine the whole time, watching for any sign of discomfort, murmuring soft nonsense when I winced.

I carefully apologized. Lord Kael stood there for some moments, probably thinking whether to kick me with his leg or not. Finally, he moved towards a couch and dropped into it. The bottom of his cup came to rest on a glass table. There was a vase beside with flowers in it. He picked a bottle from the floor and sprayed water on it. "You know something I love about flowers?" he asked. "No, my lord. I don't."

I joked and the corner of my lips curved into a smile. I removed the golden robe and tossed it on the couch then walked to my wife to help her undo the gown zipper. I carefully brushed hair from her neck then planted a gentle kiss on her shoulder. Hazel tilted her head to the side to give me full access to her neck and I chuckled. I inhaled her sweet scent deep in my lungs and then sucked on her neck teasingly.Hazel moaned and Liam purred in my head,being horny in an instant. I slowly unzipped the gown.Hazel let the gown go and it landed on the tiled floor with a faint rustle noise.

I’d forgotten just how extra Lola could be. “Get drunk”. I read the words on the list aloud. “Dance with a stranger. Try smoking a blunt. Flirt with a handsome boy. Get your first kiss. Get your breast…..” I held out the note to her, not bothering to finish reading out the list because it was of no use. I wasn’t doing one thing written there. She folded her arms on her chest, making no move to take the note. “Why are you giving it back to me?”

Angelica I press my palms against a clothed, hard chest. The fabric is soft to the touch and…wet, reeking of alcohol. I immediately know who this chest belongs to—and I shouldn’t be touching it. So I take a step back, withdrawing my hand as though instead of wet, the fabric burns me. But the second I do, long, thick, and manly fingers wrap around both my wrists, pulling me flush against him, my palms pressed there again, feeling the steady thud beneath it.

His touch is gentle now, almost tender. “Color, baby girl?” he asks quietly. The endearment undoes me. “Green,” I whimper. “Please don’t stop.” A low groan rumbles in his chest. His hand slides lower, between my thighs, fingers gliding easily through my soaked folds. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You are absolutely dripping. Look at this messy little pussy.” Two thick fingers push inside me without warning, curling perfectly to stroke that spot that makes my vision spark. I moan loud, push back against his hand shamelessly.

And Apollo was… gentle. His hand rested at her waist. Not gripping. Not restraining. Holding. His fingers moved occasionally—slow, absent strokes along her spine, through her hair—gestures so unguarded they felt obscene to witness. A touch that looked almost… learned. As if his hand remembered how to be careful, and that memory scared Caelum more than cruelty ever had.