روايات وقصص ضمن Rough Hands

"They salted them twice this morning and it's done absolutely nothing, I nearly went down on them myself before dinner — here, let me—" "I am quite well." The words come out of me flat as a closed door. His hand stays where it is. Waiting. But I only look down at it. So much larger than I remember. And rougher, too— the palm broader, the fingers no longer a boy's fingers. There is a small pale scar crossing one knuckle, thin and clean, the sort a person gets from something sharp and does not think about again. It was not there the last time I saw this hand.

She retorts and I laugh. “At my locker, the no name twin touched me, under my chin and grazed my hands.” My skin breaks out in goosebumps just at the memory if his tough. “They were rough.” I whisper. “Calloused, like he’s no stranger to working with his hands.” I trace where his hands had been, closing my eyes and picturing his face. God, he was so beautiful. His hands rough but his touch so light, so gentle. Like he could hurt me but thought me fragile.

Her hands started itching to do something. Desperate fingers fisted into the material of his shirt as she tried to drag it up his body, fighting to touch his flesh. Hard, hot flesh that invited her hands, muscles that flexed above her. Raine writhed beneath him, her hands to clench on his back, her nails scraping against his flesh.

I was lying of course but I couldn't come up with anything else. He dug into his jean pocket and took out his cellphone. I know it's weird but as he tapped onto the screen, I noticed how nice his hands were. All the boys at my high school had ugly, calloused hands. Those were football player's and carpenter's hands but his were so smooth and...perfect.

"Oh, sorry. You're just so beautiful I can't take my eyes off you." Sarah snorted. "Please. Spare me the line." "It's not a line. I mean it." He grabbed her hands again before she could move them away. The touch of his fingers on her skin was just as electric as it had been six years ago. When she tried to pull away he tightened his hold. "Beau, I—" "Okay." He released her hands, but not before brushing his thumbs across her knuckles. Then he grinned. "I'll do my best to keep my hands to myself." "Thank you."

Intelligent, kind and courageous. His mouth turned up as Lizzy made a silly joke, but Abby was thoroughly absorbed in his sexy hands folding with confident precision. His long fingers so capable. Capable enough to take away life or to protect it. Well-trained hands decorated with a few rough calluses and light scars. Feeling them run down her back or stroke her arm always resulted in goose bumps.

“Sex isn’t the answer. Talking about your problems is.” “I’ll talk while I fuck you. I’m sure I’ll have lots to say about how good you’ll feel.” She forced her gaze down to his hands. They were big and she knew there were calluses on his fingertips, the pads of his thumbs, and his palms. Most of the survivors had that anomaly and she’d noticed in other sessions that he had it too. She wondered what his hands would feel like on her skin. Rough? Good? Or like sandpaper? It was tempting to find out.

Both of their right hands were shaking so hard that they felt a little pain. The power of Alex's attack was offset a lot, and the direction of the attack deviated from the planned track. It quickly turned into a stick with both hands. With the support of the power of both hands, the stick slipped down the back of the knife and finally hit the skinny man's shoulder!

Her hands were cupped in his hands. The contrast between the two pairs of hands, one large and one small, were striking. His hands were beautiful. From the shape of his fingers, to the length, to the joints and nails, they all looked perfect. On the contrary, some of the joints on her hands looked unnatural, two of them particularly crooked. Her hands looked like the kind of hands that had gone through many years of manual labor. Upon closer inspection, one could even see some scars on her skin...

Her eyes—bright, unyielding—fixed on Ryker as though she could see every storm still surging in him. He lingered near the door, his chest heaving, eyes dark and restless. Then slowly, as though each movement carried weight, Ryker tugged at the leather gloves that encased his hands. The sodden leather clung to his skin before peeling away, revealing his bare fingers—scarred, calloused, trembling. The moment they were free, he clenched his fists, jaw tight. His hands shook not only from cold but from the force of what they contained. Tiny sparks danced at his fingertips before fading, the threat of fire coiling just beneath the surface.