Stolen Touches Novels & Stories

In my previous life, my baby survived because my body held up. When I first came to Valoria, I never believed in fairy tales, so I kept my guard up. Andre would slip out of our bedroom every night. One time, I trailed him at a distance and watched him crawl into another woman's bed. I heard him whisper to her, "Just wait a little longer. I already have someone carrying my baby. Her blood will help you, and her baby can donate marrow for our son. Don't worry, I never touched her. It was through IVF. I'd never sleep with another woman. But I have to pretend I'm in love so that she doesn't catch on. It's exhausting!"

No kisses, no embraces, no casual touches, nothing without clear permission. This vow stands regardless of circumstance, regardless of desire, regardless of how much I want to break it. I will honor your bodily autonomy within these walls, giving you sovereignty over physical contact even though I've stolen your freedom." "And if you break this vow?" Sienna asked.

Instead, his fingers slid down, wrapping firmly around my palm. I stiffened. "You are not wearing gloves." "I forgot them in my locker. Deal with it for five minutes." He squeezed my hand, tugging me closer until his shoulder brushed mine. "Smile. Or at least look like you don't want to swallow glass." "This is an unacceptable alteration to the contract," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the pavement. "Touch was supposed to be restricted to gloved contact." "The contract doesn't cover the fact that half the hockey team is sitting at the outdoor café right now, watching to see if I actually bagged the campus ghost or if the blog was lying."

When he pulled out, I leaked a mess that was both of them down my thigh onto the sheet. Nobody reached for a rag at once. They looked at me instead. Marked. Open. Claimed on both sides. Ash’s mouth was red. His eyes were not laughing. “Stolen,” he said, naming it again so I couldn’t pretend they had found another word overnight. “Kept. You run, the bond pulls. You stay, we feed you and we fuck you and we don’t share you with the road. That’s the deal. Still no sorry in it.”

You've been targeting me all this time because you wanted my wife, didn't you? [You deliberately stole my wife's underwear so you could manufacture a chance encounter. You're unbelievably vicious.] [I finally caught you yesterday. What do you have to say for yourself now?] [You like being the other man that much? I bet some rich woman bought your apartment for you too.] I instantly exploded. Then he started flooding the chat with screenshots from his home security cameras. The images showed Vanessa holding her underwear as she walked out of my apartment. I was genuinely impressed. The man could turn black into white without blinking.

“Say my name when I touch you.” He peeled the tank top off me in one smooth move, tossing it somewhere. Then he looked, really looked. His eyes dragged over my tits, my stomach, the little scar on my hip from when I was fifteen and stupid. He ran his thumb over that scar like it belonged to him too.

Stefan Sweat covered Stefan’s brow as he faced Lotus. A wicked smile covered his face. This was the moment. Total exhilaration flooded him. Stefan ducked out of Lotus’s stinging bite. As he shifted to recover from the movement, she slashed her tail at him. The tail sliced through his arm, drawing blood. He grimaced and went in for his strike. Smoothly gliding into her side, he sliced her with the small blade his trainer provided. Lotus hissed and lunged at him.

“You feel that? How full you are? How much of me is still leaking out of you?” I nodded. Bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. “I can feel… everything. Every inch. Every pulse.” He leaned down. Pressed his mouth to the corner of mine—not quite a kiss, more like a claim. “You’re keeping this shirt,” he said quietly. Not asking. I smiled shakily. “I already stole it. Months ago.” “Yeah.” His hand slid under the hem—fingers tracing the curve under my breast, then cupping it fully. Thumb brushed slow circles over my nipple until it peaked again under his touch. “And now you’ve stolen something else.”

I dialed in the timestamp and started sifting through the footage. I focused intently on the video as it played. Freckles approached casually, but I zoomed in on the moment our bodies connected. Her chest brushed against mine, and I zoomed in further. There it was—her hand slipping subtly between us. It was a slight touch, almost imperceptible, but it was there. I replayed the footage, analyzing her movements. Her hand brushed against my side where my wallet had been. The touch was practiced, deliberate. It probably wasn't the first time she had done it.

He didn't want to lose the only honest thing he had ever touched. The stranger’s large, calloused hand slid slowly up Elias’s inner thigh, his broad thumb tracing the tender, darkening bruises he had left near the hip. The touch wasn't rough this time; it was a slow, deliberate calculation, a sensory mapping that felt dangerously close to a clinical investigation.