Touch Your Heart Reviews Novels & Stories

Serenity added. Those words made Haanh Morales shudder and suck in a breath. This was the first time hearing those words since Serenity's heartwarming love declaration at the club. Her reaction was the same as last time, if not more. This time, it was impossible to hide the smile that crept to her face as her heart melted like a chocolate bar put under heat. A sizzling sensation spread through Hannah's body and settled in the pit of her stomach. The only logical thing to do was made a U-turn, cancel her site visit at the site, drive home to her lover and tell her a million ways that she loved her too.

He whispers. I breathed out shakily, his touch affecting me more than it should. "Could you not?" I pleaded, eyes blurring as I held my emotions in. He was too near, too real. "Please." I pleaded when he didn't pull away from me. I fucking hated that he made me feel this way. He ruined me. I hiccuped, crying as I gripped the edge of the bowl. "Just leave me alone Haiden." I cried. "You were doing a fine job for days now," I grumbled and heaved again while trying to shrug off his touch. No more alcohol for me, it was proving to be an even bigger devil than Haiden Cross.

"I’ve spent nine seasons running away from you or toward you. I think I’ll just stay right here for a while." He pulled me into him, his skin still holding that unnerving, unnatural heat. We lay there in the silence, the only sound the crackle of the dying fire and that faint, persistent click-click-click from within his chest. The Drama of the Heart: The Vocabulary of Touch "Do you hear it?" I asked, my hand splayed across his ribs. "The heart. It’s not stopping, Jinyan." He sighed, the sound vibrating through my own body. "I hear it. It’s the background noise of my life now, Panni. A reminder that I’m more ledger than man."

"Let me hold you first." My heart rate picked up as he stroked my hair softly, his fingers tracing aimless, soothing patterns on my bare arm. The tenderness was very different to the violence against the door, and it was far more dangerous. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. I chanted to myself like a mantra. But my heart gave a traitorous, silly beat when he pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head. Shit. I’m a bit more touch-starved than I thought.

Damian took my hands, lifting them up, and placed my palms flat against his broad, warm chest. A sharp, electric shockwave slammed straight through my nervous system. I let out a low, shuddering gasp, my fingers instinctively curling into the firm, muscular wall of his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thumping of his heart beneath his skin. For a week, he had strictly forbidden me from laying a single finger on him. Touching him now—feeling the searing heat of his body, the rough hair on his chest, the solid reality of his frame—felt like a sacred, intoxicating privilege that made my head spin. "Touch me, Beverly," Damian rumbled close to my ear, his broad hands coming down to rest on my hip

❞ ‹ ——— ✧ 𖥸 ✧ ——— › ╔═════════ • ≻ ♜ ≺ • ═════════╗ ꒰ 𝔐𝔸𝕋𝔼 𝕋𝕆 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝔻ℝ𝔸𝔾𝕆ℕ ℙℝ𝕀ℕℂ𝔼 ₊˚⋆ ( TRIGGER WARNINGS ) ╚═════════ • ≻ ♜ ≺ • ═════════╝ ☽ —— 「 Our love is untouchable 」

Storm, Storm in my heart, can you stop scaring me hard, loom not above my head, let me be tucked cozy in my bed, All Hearts !!

Cameron was standing outside Marissa’s door, trying to build the courage to ring the doorbell. After a deep breath, when he was about to touch the bell, someone called from behind, causing him to have a mini heart attack. “Cameron,” “Fuck! Marissa, you scared the shit out of me.” He exclaimed loudly, one hand on his heart and breathing deeply. “I am sorry, but why are you standing outside my door?” She asked him curiously. Today, Marissa was late coming home as she had to run to the grocery store, so it was unusual for her to see her student uncle standing in front of her doorstep in all his glory.

Every touch feels like salvation and damnation rolled into one. It's the way he makes me feel that keeps me tethered. His touch... God, it's not just skin-deep. It's as if he's caressing every scar I've ever tried to hide, touching the parts of me that no one else sees, not even me sometimes. When his hands glide over my skin, it's like he's mapping out my heart, piece by shattered piece. He makes me feel alive, like I'm burning from the inside out. And maybe that's why I'm still here, even when my mind is screaming at me to run.

The terror of one who touches the masterpiece he helped create. He raises a hand. He does not dare. His fingers remain suspended a few millimeters from my sternum, where my heart beats a tarantella rhythm. "Touch," I murmur. "It's a score too. A living score." He obeys. His touch is of an unbearable softness. His fingertips land on my skin, just above my heart. He follows the curve of my collarbone, descends along the edge of my ribcage. Each particle of skin he grazes ignites, remembers. It is not a sensual caress. It is a tracing. He draws staves on my ribs, clefs on my hips. I close my eyes, head thrown back, and let the sensation invade me. It is more intimate than anything we have done.