Rough Hands Novels & Stories

"I'm not letting Shawn off the hook for what he did to Sue. He has to kneel and apologize!" The tiny hand rolled across the floor, dark and grimy from the blood and dirt smeared on it. Yet, I pushed my way forward, cradling it against my chest as if it were something invaluable.

My hands moved up and down her arms, rubbing gently to encourage circulation. Evelina’s body stiffened at my touch, her muscles coiled like a spring, betraying her discomfort and embarrassment. But as I continued to touch her, the tension in her limbs slowly gave way to relaxation, the warmth from my hands melting into her chilled skin. I could feel every goosebump on her soft flesh under my rough callused palms. My touch elicited a sharp intake of breath from her when my hand traced over her exposed stomach.

Tied on the back of his hand, not over the wound, so it wouldn't rub. He looked down at her hands. The web of her thumb had calluses too. Not from gripping a sword. From washing clothes. Two different kinds of calluses. His were yellow, hard, thick. Hers were white, soft, thin. He reached out with his uninjured hand, took her wrist, and turned it over for a look. She didn't pull away. He released her wrist. "You wrap well," he said. "Learned in the laundry."

"Magic hands." Gareth didn't linger on the compliment. He walked back to the trunk, his movements fluid and purposeful. He reached for my suitcase—the one that had nearly snapped my wrist earlier—and hoisted it with his right hand. The muscles in his forearm corded beneath the skin, the veins on the back of his hand standing out in sharp relief under the amber glow of the streetlamp. He carried it as if it were a hollow cardboard box, his stride steady as he walked into the small yard.

I said quickly, but my voice sounded too defensive. Shane stepped closer, and before I could react he caught my wrist and yanked my hand out of my pocket. His eyes widened. “Holy—” He turned my hands over, then ran his fingers over my knuckles, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Your hands. They’re… they’re fine.” He muttered almost to himself. I jerked my hands back and shoved them behind me. “Stop staring at me like I just grew a second head.” “Stop acting like you didn’t.” Shane furrowed deeply. “Two days ago, your hands were brutally injured. It was a bloody mess. You couldn’t even close your fist without crying out in pain. And now—” He stared at my hands. “This is not possib

he whispered, his hand reaching out, hovering inches from her skin. Ruth-Ann looked into his eyes and nodded, sucking in a huge breath. Ryder's hand moved with agonizing slowness. His fingers were large and calloused, but his touch was lighter than air. He reached into the opening of her shirt and gently cupped her breast, his palm warm against her skin. He used his thumb to carefully nudge her nipple back inside the cup of her bra, his touch lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The contrast of his rough, masculine hand against her soft, porcelain skin was the most erotic thing Ruth-Ann had ever experienced.

“You – you do?” “Yes. So.” Sam carefully reached across the table and took her hand. “What are you doing Friday night?” “Friday… Friday night?” “Yes. Friday night.” Annie stared down at his strong, capable hand completely enveloping hers. Her wrinkled, cracked, veiny, unmoisturized hand, damaged from years of carrying heavy trays, and being burned by boiling coffee and sauces. It wasn’t a manicured hand, naturally, and she felt the urge to yank it away, to curl her disgusting nails up and under her palm.

The palm was broad, the fingers long and powerful. But it was the knuckles that told the story. They were thick, calloused, and bore the faint, white jagged lines of old scar tissue, the kind of scarring earned not from kitchen work, but from the repeated, violent impact of bone against bone. "Look at the radial bone," Julian whispered, pointing at the screen. "Look at the grip strength required to hold those shears at that specific angle. That is a masculine hand. More specifically, it is a hand that has been trained to kill."

"Say it. God, Josie, say it." "No." "Please." "No." His rhythm stuttered. His grip tightened. She felt his fingers dig into her hips, hard, and there was something wrong with his hands. They felt bigger. The fingers felt thicker, the palms wider, like his hands were expanding. She opened her eyes and looked at his hands on her hips. They were the same. Just hands. But for a second, a half-second, she'd felt something else. Roughness. Like pads. Like the palm of something not human.

"Give me your hand, Lucien. Unless you want to walk out there blind." “I've been walking around blind all my life,” he winked at me. “But I guess I can't pass on the opportunity to hold a gorgeous woman's hand.” He added and I shook my head. He can never be serious. Slowly, Lucien turned his hand over, palm up. His hand was massive compared to mine, his skin rough and heavily calloused from years of violence, mapped with faint white scars that ran across his tattoed knuckles. ​Without hesitating, I reached out and clasped my hand over his.