My Husband Has No Hands Novels & Stories

Simba snuggled comfortably in my arms. I cried until I was completely worn out and eventually dozed off. The next morning, Seth and I were woken up by a strange noise. I quickly ran to the bathroom once we saw each other. Inside, I saw Seth's face staring back at me in the mirror. I pinched my cheek. It hurt. This was not a dream. A counter with the number twenty on it suddenly appeared on our wrists. A book of instructions was lying on the coffee table in the living room. It informed us that this was a game to bring married couples closer together. If we hit a hundred points and told each other 'I love you', we would be able to switch back.

He was no longer a man balancing two lives. He was a man with none. No wife. No home. No love that could bear the weight of what he’d done. Just him. And the silence he deserved.

"I checked your shift—no night duty. Can you clock out? Just picked up some fresh Boston lobster. Gonna cook it for you tonight." The second his lips touched me, my skin crawled. I hadn't eaten since lunch, but now my stomach twisted and my chest felt tight. I stood, brushed him off, voice tight. "Wait outside." As I shrugged off my lab coat, Emma, the new intern, sipped her milk tea and muttered, "Dr. Zander, your husband treats you so well. I hope I find someone like that someday." I paused, then turned. "Don't count on it. Rely on yourself. Love and guys? Just bonus points in life."

“Sometimes, when you fall asleep on my chest, I stay awake just to feel you breathe. It reminds me you’re real.” I swallowed, a tiny ache blooming under my ribs. “You know, a normal husband's snoring. They don’t say things like that.” He grinned. “Normal husbands don’t get you.” I pressed my lips to the back of his hand. “Good, I never wanted normal, anyway.” ---

I smiled. “Has my husband had his breakfast?” I asked, touching his stomach, and he swatted my hand away harshly. I watched him struggle to get in his wheelchair, and when he did, he wheeled away without any words. I watched him go, confused. What seems to be wrong with him?

I teased, "Did you plant some kind of surveillance device on me, Mr. Rivers?" … When I got home, Simon still hadn't returned. The dim, silent living room was so quiet that it was almost frightening. I slipped the ring off my left ring finger and tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a crisp clink, then rolled off somewhere. I didn't bother to see where it went. I headed upstairs and pulled my suitcase out. But when I opened the wardrobe, I suddenly realized I barely had any decent clothes. Ever since I married Simon, I'd become a full-time housewife. Aside from loungewear, I hardly had anything I could actually wear out. Even the engagement ring he'd given me back when he proposed didn't fi

"Your name's Yvonne, right? You're saying my husband choked you and ripped your clothes with his hands?" Yvonne straightened up and said with unwavering confidence, "That's right! His hands were shockingly strong and covered in calluses. They hurt so much! I'll never forget those hands!" "Good." I nodded, a glint of coldness in my eyes. "Hopefully, when we get to court, you’ll still remember what those hands look like. "Because my husband lost his hands in a fire five years ago. "You said he choked you? With what? His imaginary hands?"

Our hands moved around as mine ruffled his wet hair, while he used one of his hands to grab my ass, pulling me closer to his body, and he used his other hand to hold the back of my head. ‎We kissed for a while before I finally pulled away from Tyson's mouth cause I wanted to get a taste of the other parts of his body too. ‎I ran my hands over his firm chest, with his six packs. My husband could only dream of having a six-pack because he had a pot belly and was totally unfit. ‎I rolled my hands seductively around his nipples, and I heard him growl lowly.

The CEO of a multinational company was standing barefoot on warm soil now, shirt stained, hands dirty, listening to instructions from a farmer. And somehow… That version of him felt more real than the man she once married.

“Do you have any idea who I am? What’s currently happening in my life? What you’re actually asking of me right now? And you want me to dance with you? As what, exactly? What is happening?” “As my husband.” He said it easy, casual, already reaching for my hand like the answer was obvious. “Come on. There’s music in my head. That counts.” “That does not count.” “It absolutely counts.” He caught my hand before I could pull it back, and I let him, mostly out of pure bewilderment, watching him with the specific expression of a man trying to determine whether his husband had also just suffered a head injury. “One dance. That’s all I’m asking.”