Hold On My Hand Michael Jackson Novels & Stories

"ye....es" My clit was so sensitive by now. When the rubbing stopped it almost felt like a relief.... but suddenly two fingers were plunged deep into my opening. I couldn't help but clench around them and a sigh escaped my lips. Damon let them be there for a while. "You're so wet.... so ready for me sweetheart"... he said this while reaching down to kiss me... Then his other hand moved from my cheek and took a hold of both of my wrists and held them securely over my tummy. He kissed me again and then he crooked his fingers and started pumping.

He turns back with a smile. I look down at Jaxon's hand which is still holding mine when the doctor comes around the small bed to check on the wound. He was confusing more as he kept on holding onto my hand, he looked down at my hand and finally let go. My hand felt empty when he let go and it took everything in me not to grab his hand.

I insisted, refusing to let go of his hand. “Miss, we need space to work,” one of them said gently, but firmly. I couldn’t let go. Not now. Not when I had just realized how much I loved him. I leaned down, pressing my lips to his forehead. “Hold on, Michael,” I whispered. “Please, hold on.” Then they wheeled him away, and I followed, my heart pounding with fear. Because I had just found the love of my life. And I couldn’t lose him now.

I tried to pull my wrist from him but he held it firmly. He kneels, sliding his hand from my wrist to hand, holding it softly, taking a small blue velvet box from his pocket. He opened the box and a delicate diamond ring showed. “What the f…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. “Elena, will you marry me?” He asked in a deep voice, projecting it loud enough so the paparazzi could hear.

Jаѕоn has made mе do things I dіdn’t knоw I’d enjoy; things I want tо еxреrіеnсе оvеr аnd over again. I gеt bасk into thе rооm and lооk аt hіm again. He hоldѕ оut a hаnd аnd pulls mе to ѕtаnd bеtwееn his lеgѕ. Hе tаkеѕ mу jаw in hіѕ hаnd. The grір is not hаrd, but firm. Hе holds mе thеrе, аѕѕеѕѕіng аnd wаtсhіng my rеасtіоnѕ tо him.

Please. Suddenly, I felt it. A twitch of his fingers. My heart stopped. My breath caught in my throat. Had I imagined it? No. I leaned forward, holding my breath, afraid to blink in case I missed it. His hand moved again, barely perceptible, but it was there. And then, ever so faintly, he squeezed my hand. Relief flooded through me. He was still fighting, still with me, still holding on. I whispered softly, "I'm here, Hollis. I'm not going anywhere."

Several bottles of liquor littered the floor. Christopher himself was standing before a huge canvas that had an incomplete drawing on it. His white singlet was soiled with paint and sweat and he held the brush tentatively. When he heard the door open, he turned sharply. I thought he was about to yell at me, but he didn’t. he just paused, staring at me as if I was a mystery.

No jewelry, no watch, just him. He didn’t wait to grab me and hug me as he carried me inside, kicking the door behind him. He stopped in the middle of the floor, with his face in my neck, breathing me in. Swaying back and forth to the music, he danced with me in the air. I can’t lie, it felt so good to be back in his arms. Take That Off Your Hands by Tank came on. He put me down and began singing to me as we danced in the middle of the floor. He was holding my hand as he sung it word for word. He was making it known that he was taking me off Stu’s hands. He was so serious, I laughed as he did the flex like a superhero. He was tripping and it was a welcoming ice breaker. We were laughing and

I just moved. One second, I was watching. The next, my hand wrapped around his wrist, and I squeezed. His entire body jerked. His fingers twitched where they were gripping Michael’s shirt, and I tightened my hold, feeling his bones shift under my grasp. I could break them. Right now. Easily. I leaned in, my voice cold and controlled. “Let. Him. Go.” The man’s jaw clenched. For a split second, I thought he might be stupid enough to resist.

The video was taken at the hospital's ward. A burly, middle-aged man with a buzzcut was on the screen. His left arm was in a cast and hung before his chest. He was Tristan, the guy I saved from certain death. His eyes were red, and he was roaring at the people beside him. "On your knees!" The camera moved. A middle-aged woman and two young men dropped to their knees. Those people were the ones who had snarled and yelled at me.