The Nobleman With His Hand On His Chest Novels & Stories

Placing his right hand on his chest, the Prince shows them (the Knights) a patronizing gesture, helping them remember the oath they made for this Kingdom. Following the Prince's gesture, the Knights put their hand on their chest as it pleases the Prince. The Prince removes his hand on his chest, and he turns his back around from them as he lets out a satisfying sigh. ************** Meanwhile, inside the premises of the Palace, Minister Kingsley wash his hands in the restroom as the Grand Duke observes his every movement. "Why are you suspecting me?" Minister Kingsley asks while rolling his eyes in annoyance. Scratching his head, the Grand Duke scoff, "I am not suspecting you. I am merely wat

“You noticed?” “When you grabbed our hands earlier,” Karl answered without hesitation. Atthy raised her palm, glancing at it briefly before looking back at Karl. “So you felt it...” Karl nodded. “Yes. Your palms are calloused. That’s unusual for a noblewoman.” Atthy smiled lightly. “But I’m still a noble. Even without a title, my grandfather is a Baron, and my mother is the daughter of a Viscount.” Karl suddenly looked a little awkward. “I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean to say anything disrespectful...”

he observed coming around the table to cage me. My heart began to thud as I bowed my head slightly. I could smell his masculine presence - thick with a cigar and faint cologne. His hand flipped through the top of my gaped shirt, and my hand instinctively rushed up and grabbed his hand in between. Did he catch sight of my breasts? I peered up to meet his dark gaze - then I slowly lowered my hand from his hand. "You have a tattoo of a dove on your chest, looks much feminine for a guy like you," his eyes dropped to the area between my shoulder bones and my chest.

"I'm so, so sorry. Let me... let me fix that." My hands were completely uncoordinated as I reached up, pressing my palms directly against his chest. The heat radiating off his skin through the damp linen was intoxicating. I started rubbing my hands over his pectoral muscles, frantically trying to wipe the wine away, but the motion only smeared the red liquid further into the fabric. His chest felt like solid marble beneath my palms. "Easy, piccola," the man murmured. His large, warm hands came down, gently but firmly wrapping around my wrists to stop my frantic, messy scrubbing.

The figure turned fully around, revealing a weathered face, a missing tooth, and a pair of wide, startled brown eyes belonging entirely to a middle-aged stable hand holding the halter of a restless chestnut mare. "Mornin', sir," the stable hand muttered, blinking in confusion at the manic panic radiating from the young billionaire's heir. "Just tryin' to settle this one down before the ride. Too much frost in the air." Adrian froze, his hand still clamped awkwardly to the man’s lapel. The blood drained entirely from his face, leaving his skin ice-cold. "Right," Adrian choked out, his voice cracking slightly as he forced his fingers to uncurl from the rough wool. "Carry on."

Mister handsome says as he raises his left hand and places his right hand on his chest. He almost seemed to be saying an oat. "Alright, then." I uttered aloud, and with that, I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

He looked at his cut hands. The masked man turned around. He looked down at Oliver. The tall billionaire knelt down. He did not care that the dirty stones touched his expensive suit pants. He reached out a large hand. He wore a heavy silver ring on his finger. "Take my hand," the man said. The harsh tone was gone. His voice was quieter now. Oliver looked at the big hand. He slowly lifted his shaking arm. He placed his small, cut hand into the man's large palm.

He folds his hands in his lap. He watches. The composure on his face is IMMACULATE – not a crack, not even a single indicator that watching his son fuck the woman he shares on the desk where he teaches Victorian literature is affecting the man underneath the suit – except that his eyes are full amber and the knuckles of his folded hands are white and I can see the tendons in his neck standing out like cables under strain.

Not yet. As if sensing my hesitation, he moves my hand to his chest and presses it there. I can feel the crinkle of his fabric under my fingers. I’m surprised by how strong and stiff his chest muscles are. He steps impossibly closer, his hands holding both of mine to his beating chest as his breathing makes it rise and fall in nervous heaves. Then I hear it.

T​he ruthless, untouchab‍le Iron King of Wall⁠ Street had tears str​ea‌min‌g f⁠reely down his fa‍ce, w‌ashi​ng away the dust and the b‌lood. In his large, scarred han⁠ds, wrapped haphazardly in a pri‍stine white to​wel, wa‍s a tiny, red, screaming mir‍acle​. L​orenzo placed‍ her gentl‍y onto my⁠ bare chest.