Scars In The Hand Of Jesus Novels & Stories

I was getting drunk from his scent and touch. My fingers fumbled while searching for the hem of his T-shirt. When I found it, I pulled it up and looked down at his naked torso. There were scars, strangely resembling claw marks, that started at the top of his pectoral and ended close to his navel. There were more on his shoulders and ribs. I traced my fingers over the thick, healed skin and wondered when he had gotten them. I slid my hand lower over his abdomen and cupped his erection through the material of his jeans.

Now that he was without a jacket, his lean figure was a lot more visible, but the scar on his chest had put her in a trance. She had seen the scar before when they were in the rented house, but when she asked him about it, he only replied, "It's just a small injury." However, even if the scar had gotten lighter, it looked nothing like a ‘small injury’. He suddenly took her hand and put it on his scar. She was shocked, instinctively wanting to withdraw her hand, but his fingers seemed to be made of steel. They gripped her hand, forcing her hand to press on the scar.

The caption read: [My stomach hurts so much, but Luca’s hands are so warm…] In the photo, a large hand rested against Gianna’s stomach. There was a scar on that hand, the same as the scar on Luca’s hand. I glanced at it briefly before silently removing the couple’s photo of Luca and me from my phone’s lock screen.

My breath catches in my throat. Slowly, almost against my will, I take his hand and turn it over, pushing the accessory up. My stomach drops. Several scars. Thin, pale lines crossing over one another. They are old but undeniable. My eyes widen, horror flooding me. These aren’t battle wounds. They were carved deliberately. I gasp softly, clamping a hand over my mouth. I can't believe what I'm seeing. I look up at his sleeping face, a lump forming in my throat.

she said and returned to the roses. Lysan stood there for a moment, watching her—then his eyes drifted to her hands. There was a scar on her right palm—the same scar he had on his original body, the same shape. Lysan froze. It can't be. That's impossible. How could the same exact scar he had in his previous life appear on Professor Cullen's hand? Has it been there before? Was he the one that hadn't noticed it? He was still looking at the mark when she turned and looked at him, her brown eyes meeting his.

He reaches up and tugs at the buttons of his shirt, letting it pool carelessly on the stone floor. I gasp, my eyes widening. His chest is broad, sculpted like marble. But I notice something I didn’t earlier today — a scar on his chest. It looks like a scar caused by a stab. But why haven’t it healed? He’s a demon who possesses special healing abilities.

He was perfect with his scars. Even Ezio and Aries seemed to be as nothing in front of him. He was perfect as he was. I felt like touching him. My inner soul was crying out loudly saying you should touch him. I stretched out my hands to touch his cheeks which had cuts. He moves his face with my touch and held my hands and said," Aren't you afraid of me? Aren't you afraid of these all ugly scars running all over my body ?"

Demanding his response. Ezekiel still couldn't see, but he now knew exactly what the soft, lumpy patches of skin were. Scars. Lots of old scars that crisscrossed Brandon's upper body. Giving into the same need that had driven him to caress the marks a few weeks ago, Ezekiel ran his tongue down Brandon's body. And used his hands to rub his hard chest and lean thigs.

Tilted my face up toward his so I couldn't look away even if I wanted to. His thumb brushed across my jaw. Slow. Deliberate. The touch sends electricity racing across my skin. Then his other hand reached down and caught my wrist. He lifted my hand slowly, turning it over in his grip with careful precision. His eyes dropped to my palm. To the scar there. The burn mark from months ago. It had healed now, the angry red faded to pale pink. But it was still visible. Still there. Still marking my skin like a brand. His thumb traced over the scar tissue. Gentle. Almost reverent.

My fingers mistakenly graze a stab wound and he shivers at the touch. “You need to lift up.” I murmur clearing my throat. He hisses when he lifts his body up and I manage to get his t-shirt all the way to his shoulders until his entire back is on display. He has multiple scars. Some from gunshots, some from knife fights, and others from whips. The tattoo covers most of them. My hands itch to touch his imperfections. They are the scars of his life, what shaped him into the man he is, the one he’ll become.