Hand To Hold On To Novels & Stories

He blinked, once… twice… like he was trying to stay present. But it was already taking over. His hand moved suddenly, almost instinctively, reaching out. And then— He caught her hand. Tightly. Aria stilled for a moment. Not because she couldn’t pull away. But because of how he held on. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t rough. It was… desperate. Like someone holding onto the only thing they recognized before everything else slipped away. Her eyes dropped to their hands for a second, then back to his face.

The particular fullness of a moment that did not require anything added to it. She turned her hand over and held his.

Andrew said in a passionate tone. The young man's words filled Lana's heart, so it was as if her hands had a mind of their own, and her embrace with Andrew became even tighter. "Promise," Lana replied. That was true for her; she could not give her hands to others because, for her, they were the extension of one's heart. That's why she feels a lot of good emotions when Andrew holds her hand. Because when the young man holds her hands, it's like he's holding her heart as well.

“Your hand must be going numb. I’ll hold it.” “I’m fine. I don’t mind.” “I know, but I do.” Closing her eyes, she took another deep breath and bent down again, making sure the cup was aligned correctly. When her left hand curled around her knee, without thinking I grabbed it and linked our fingers together. This time, she didn’t look at me, and she didn’t try to pull away either. We just held on. I wasn’t sure which one of us was holding on tighter, but we stayed like that for the rest of the ten minutes and then finally the cup was full enough to stop.

It was all there — in the look, the touch, and the way their hands stayed clasped, as if they’d found something worth holding onto. He suddenly stopped.

And then it happened. Grappling under him, about to cum, he wrapped his fingers around her right wrist. It was unyielding and hard. With a smooth practiced motion, he held her hand aloft over her head, bracing it against the mattress. He did the same to her other wrist, holding both wrists in one of his huge hands.

A dull ache sitting low in my side, like a jab. Something else catches my attention before I can focus on it. My fingers. They twitch slightly, a small, instinctive movement, like I am testing if I can still move at all. And I feel something. Firm. Warm. My brow furrows faintly as my awareness sharpens around that sensation. My fingers move again, curling just a little, brushing against something solid that is holding onto me. A hand. The realization comes quietly, but it settles deep. Someone is holding my hand.

He goes completely still. His arms stay at his sides. I can feel him breathing. I can feel him deciding. But his hands don't close around me. And I stand there holding on anyway. —