Rough Hands Novels & Stories

Huh? Ravi stepped forward to get a closer look at Raymond's bloody hand. There was a long line of thick red blood oozing from Raymond's palm, and dark red stains surrounded the wound, indicating an old injury that had reopened. Ravi grabbed Raymond's wrist and then asked him, "What happened to your hand? I remember you've never been injured there before."

I smiled, hearing one good thing today. “But I need to land one hit today so I can progress,” I said, sitting on the bench beside Darcy. “Let me tell you a secret,” he said. And I was eager. “Tell me,” I said. “My dad’s right hand is weaker. His left hand is stronger and faster; try to aim for his right hand; if you punch him on his right arm, he will be weak for a few seconds, then you have a chance to take him down,” he said. Now that he mentioned it, I noticed his blows from his left were more painful than his right.

Now it was time for the front half of her to be washed. Once again, I dipped my hand in the water, to ensure that it was wet enough that it would not stick to her smooth skin. When you have as much of the soap bar as I have rubbed off on my hands, if you do not have enough water on it, your hand will lose the smooth feel and stick to the skin, which can cause pain or even pull on the sensitive skin. I have seen several of the other pack members get stuck down in their general region and collapse due to the pain emanating from said forceful strike. Who was to say that a woman could not experience pain if she was not taken care of properly?

“Really nervous.” “I understand,” he replies, and I hear the rustle of his movement. Then, his hand finds mine, large and warm, engulfing my smaller one. His fingers are rough, calloused from a life I know has been anything but gentle. His thumb strokes the back of my hand in a soothing rhythm, a touch that feels both strange and familiar.

The sensation of his touch was like a lifeline in the midst of a heavy storm, grounding her in the current moment rather than the miserable past. Dumbstruck as she was, Vivienne couldn't help but notice the contrast between her smaller, softer hand and the firm, callused nature of his grasp. Though unmistakably rough, Marcus’s touch was both reassuring and protective. These were the hands of someone who knew the feeling of hard work, of menial labour. The hands of someone with a story. What would such hands feel like on the rest of her skin? Brushing up her arms and over her shoulders to cup her cheek? Trailing down the curve of her neck, over her clavicle to cup one of her breasts…

“Unless you’re hoping to add infection to your list of problems.” “Oh.” Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Okay.” I held my hands out. His hands swallowed mine easily. His palms were rough, calloused, the kind of hands that had seen weapons and training and long days earned the hard way. But his grip was gentle. Deliberate. Like he knew precisely how easily skin could break. He uncorked his flask and poured water over my wrists. The sting was sharp, but I didn’t flinch. I watched his hands instead. The care in his movements. The concentration in his expression.

Marla mutters, but under her breath. “Hands?” Marek says. He catches mine, turns them palm up with gentle, impersonal thoroughness. The calluses from blades. The raw places along the fingers where water and soap make skin weep. The healing cuts. He releases me, and I pull my sleeves down to hide the worst.

Everything about him suggested strength and utility, the kind earned through sweat and repetition. What stood out most were his hands. They were large and rough, the kind of hands that didn’t belong in an office. His fingers were thick and calloused, the skin worn and dry from long days working with machines. These were hands made to grip, fix, and build, hands that looked like they could be both dangerous and careful, depending on the intent behind the touch.

Not a trick. A possibility. She reached the armory wing without knowing why. Her fingers trailed along the pressure lock, brushing old indentations on the wall ones Lucien had told her were “cosmetic glitches.” Scratches. Scrapes. No one scratches a wall that clean from the inside. Her breath caught. She turned and stared at the surface now illuminated by a thin line of light from the motion sensor. Tally marks. Small. Precise. Countless. A pattern someone like her would carve if they were trying not to lose track of days.

"Maybe yours are just very large." He smiled, continuing to examine my hand. "They're so white and delicate." "White, yes. Delicate, no." I turned my palm up, showing him the calluses. "These come from holding brushes for hours." Florian compared our hands, his dwarfing mine completely. "You call these thick calluses?" "I didn't say 'thick,'" I corrected. "Are my hands rough?" he asked suddenly, his amber eyes searching mine. I shrugged. "They're fine."