My Husband Has No Hands Novels & Stories

She threw herself at him, hysterical, hitting him with fury and pain. He held her arms and looked at her sadly. “Jimena…” His eyes filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. “I couldn’t help it, I’m very attracted to her, I’m sorry.” Jimena breathed with difficulty; hearing those words from her husband’s mouth was excruciating. She released his hand and slapped him with all her rage, then curled up on the bed, sobbing with all her might.

Hands that grip the pool net like – I need to stop. I'm forty-two. Married. My husband travels four days a week selling medical equipment to hospitals that don't return his calls, and I live in a four-bedroom house with a pool I never swim in and a closet full of clothes nobody sees and a body that hasn't been touched with intention in over a year.

He reached out and his fingers grazed my thigh, sending sparks straight to my core. "Can’t what?" he murmured. "Talk? Or can’t stop thinking of what we did upstairs?" His hand crept higher, his thumb skimming the edge of my shorts. My breath hitched before I could stop it and my thighs betrayed me, parting on instinct. "Your husband’s gone," he went on softly, cruel amusement threading his voice. "There's no one here to catch you spreading your legs for his brother again."

"And that reason is… You can never have your own children." At the same time, I slammed down a file I'd prepared right on his side of the table. The crisp clap echoed in the air and silenced everyone further. It was the full-body checkup I made him go through before we got married. I flipped it open and stopped at one of the pages. The diagnosis clearly stated he had azoospermia. The truth hit him like a bolt of lightning. With trembling hands, he tried to take the report, but the diagnosis scared him, and he pulled his hands back.

Placing a short kiss. Then he smirked, his hands leaving my thighs, dismissing. He weaved them with a shrug, Micicivioness lying in his actions. I rubbed my legs together. How much I wished he had touched me, allowed his fingers to slip into my sex, and pleasured me. I sighed, taking my last bite of the meal. “Why do you look so disappointed, wife? Someone seemed to be sulky.” He teased resting on the chair, his once rolled up shirt, revealing his veiny hands and I gulped at it, knowing damn well what those hands can do to me.

On the day my grandfather died, my wife Tamara Kelton broke my right index finger with her own hands. She grabbed my hand, forced a pen into my grip, and pressed it down onto the inheritance waiver. Blood smeared across the paper where my signature landed. "If you'd just agreed to sign, you wouldn't have had to go through all this." She dropped my hand, her tone flat. The bodyguards kept me on my knees in the mud. A few steps away, my young brother, Wyatt Ashcroft, stood with Tamara's oversized coat draped over his shoulders, our parents shielding him between them. Not a single drop of rain had touched him. With reddened eyes, he walked over and reached out to help me up.

Every small stroke of his thumb felt like a secret promise, like he was reminding me exactly whose touch I actually craved even with my husband sitting right there. Richard laughed at something the CFO said, loud and a beat too late, and reached for his wine again with a hand that wasn’t quite steady. I watched him do it and thought, not for the first time that night, that I had absolutely no idea who my husband was becoming... or what exactly had brought him halfway around the world to a dinner he had no real business attending.

He closed his eyes like a man facing execution, grabbed my hand, and tried to slap himself with it. I pulled free. "Forget it." After three years of marriage, I had nearly died before my husband finally granted me the privilege of touching his face. How ridiculous. Forget it. He disgusted me. He was the filthy one.

Later, we found out she had been suffering from severe depression. While I lost my best friend, Andrew lost the love of his life. I stayed by his side through the darkest days in his life. He refused to eat or drink. All he did was lock himself in his room, crying all night long. I never left him. I cooked for him, talked to him, coaxed him to sleep like he was a child. Eventually, we got together. I knew he still loved Jennifer, but I believed my love could heal him. When we got married, Andrew suggested we remain childfree, and I agreed to it. During those days, we lived peacefully and happily. I thought we'd go on like that forever at the time.

The moment Damien saw me walking beside Alexander, his expression changed. His eyes fell on my hand resting on Alexander’s arm. He strode toward us and grabbed my wrist, pulling me away from him. “Aurora, what the hell are you doing?” I frowned and pulled my hand free. “What does it look like?” “You’re walking around the hospital with another man like this?” I stared at him. “Another man?” Alexander’s expression immediately darkened. He stepped forward and pulled me back to his side. “She’s my wife, Mr. Blackwood.”