Rosary Hand Tattoo Men Novels & Stories

Dark, slicked-back hair, a square jaw, piercing blue eyes, and a proud nose… I would have found him gorgeous, were it not for the predatory look in his eyes. His inked fingers house two silver rings on either of his pinky fingers, along with his wedding band, which he is currently spinning with his other hand. I still find it odd that his hands aren’t fully tattooed like most mafia men, and I wonder if his entire body is covered too. I jump out of bed to greet him, and when he stalks over to me with his hands in his pockets and anger blazing in his eyes, I take a step back without thinking. He sees my fear and grins, walking right up to me until I’m pinned against the wall.

he demanded, capturing her fingers in a tight grip. He covered her much smaller hand and forced it to his hair roughened chest. He held her hand tightly for a moment until he was certain she wouldn't take her fingers away when he loosened his hold. Her eyes stayed on his tattoo as she traced the pattern. It was some kind of pagan tattoo, almost Celtic, but in the shape of a four-sided, bladed weapon. It protected his heart. She traced her fingertips over the intricate knots, fascinated by the depth of the work. Her nail accidentally scraped against his flat nipple, drawing a hiss from him. Her eyes flew to his and she nearly snatched her hand back. "Don't stop," he growled from between gritt

Ohh, my sweet Rainey’s back . She had tattoos—Celtic knot bands around her right bicep and right ankle, and an image of rosary beads which lazily encircled her neck and draped serpentine down her spine—and holy Melba toast, how sexy he found them. Lawrie traced his fingertip along the pattern, keeping the rhythm of his thrusts smooth and hard and steady, traced the scrolling thorny rose vines which entwined the rosary beads themselves, on down to the ornate, double-barred Caravaca cross, tattooed right at the small of her back. He felt himself grow larger and he trembled, the familiar tingle in his sagging scrotum rising up into his abdomen; Lorraine’s muffled screams became one long satisfi

Felicity was right; they were all here. To Jeremy's right was Jeremiah. She could get a better view of him now. He was quite as handsome as the boss but looked more sinister. There was a permanent devilish grin on his face like he dared whomever to try and do whatever. Like the boss, he has a tiny cross-in-fish tattoo on his forehead. She realized that all the men she had seen since that raid at the club had the same tattoo. But so far, Jeremy and Jeremiah wore a gold ring on their index finger. The ring glittered in the early morning sun's glow.

His hands held the railing as he leaned on it, putting some of his weight on his hands and looking at the ocean. I was relieved to find him there. Standing behind, I looked at his back and for the first time, I actually looked at the tattoo on his back, near his torso right in the middle, where his spinal cord was. It was an inverted cross with snakes wrapping around it. It was demonic. He was demonic. I mean who gets an inverted cross tattooed on their body? I walk to him and stand a few feet behind. “Why are we still here?” I ask looking at his broad back, scrunching my eyes due to the bright sun.

It was so abrupt but needed. “You okay?” His hand touched my arm. The one with the tattoo. I grabbed it, holding it up so I could feel it. I couldn’t see it anymore in the dark, but I knew it was there. I traced my fingers over it, feeling his skin. “Why do you have a tattoo that usually means peace?” He tensed. “What?” “The dove. The rays of sun. Your life is not about peace.” He didn’t answer right away. “Because there was a time in my life when I needed some. So I got it.”

A silver chain around the man’s neck. A pendant. Not just any pendant. It was the same one her uncle, used to wear. And just beneath his torn shirt… There was a tattoo. A black R, crossed by a serpent. The Roosevelt Syndicate. ---

He looked so peaceful yet so… I couldn't get a name for it. I traced my fingers over his extravagant tattoos, most of which were a mixture of ravens, artistic guns and bleeding roses. Was he ex-military or mafia? Or both? Because if he was, that'd be cool. The man who chose to hide behind a mask and answer a quirky name — GunsAreCool. The man who gave me the best blowjob of my life.

"They're not rogues. The symbol on his left arm—it's from a northern pack." I followed his gaze and noticed a tattoo—a black 'S' with a small crescent moon in the center. "Do they have pack symbols tattooed?" I whispered, and the man was still engrossed in conversation with his companions, not looking directly at us, but his attention seemed focused on me. "Yes, but on my left chest." I shifted my gaze to him. "What does it look like?" My fear from moments before had dissipated, perhaps because having him beside me eased my trembling heart.

They looked fucking delicious. He wasn't affected by my staring as he went on to remove his pants, leaving him in shorts. Did he plan to train me when he got dressed this morning? Hell, did he think we could get any training done when he was looking like that? He had a full sleeve tattoo on his right hand that I was sure extended to his chest; a snake tattoo. And on his left arm were different small tattoos, most of which were writings. "I said training, tesoro." Alessandro's voice made my eyes snap up to his. "I didn't say you should gawk."