Touching Poems Novels & Stories

His arm came around her shoulders again, not as a question, but as a quiet answer. “I used to wonder if I’d ever be able to touch someone again,” Adrian said, voice barely more than a whisper. "You can," she said, turning to him. "You are." They pressed foreheads, breath for breath. She felt the strength in him, the vulnerability in him, the pain of all those years he'd spent wasting, hiding, alone. But she saw the strength—slow discovery of something deep and true. It was no fairy tale. It was harder, more subdued. Constructed out of wounds and gentle words, not magic. And somehow it was more beautiful.

I let out a soft moan, my body reacting instinctively to every touch, every movement of his lips. *God, his touch was electric. Every kiss lit a fire inside me; every whisper of his fingers on my skin set me ablaze.* My hands tangled in his short, messy hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel more. I could barely think, barely breathe under the intensity of it all.

He takes the plate, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “We’ll see.” We sit at the table, and for a few blissful seconds, there’s only the sound of forks scraping against plates. But of course, I can’t leave well enough alone. “So,” I say between bites, “about this no touching rule…” He groans. “Not this again.” “I’m just saying—it’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? We’re adults. We can survive the occasional accidental brush of the arm.” “It’s not dramatic,” he says flatly. “It’s simple. No touching means no lines get crossed.”

The lines between desire and reason blurred, and I found myself succumbing to the magnetic pull he exerted over me. His fingers, long and sinewy, reached out and brushed against the fabric of my shirt. The touch was feather-light, yet electrifying. It sent a cascade of goosebumps along my skin, awakening a dormant fire within me. I gasped, unable to control the tremor that coursed through my body. His touch continued, gliding along my soft, exposed skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. I closed my eyes, unable to resist the sensations that overwhelmed me. Every nerve ending sparked to life as his fingers traced invisible patterns, setting my senses ablaze.

After the interrogation that day, fuck had a grown woman like me craving, but since there was no cock around and no vibrator, I had to use my fingers to oh yeah that's the spot. When I was done with the masturbation, just then on my phone, a notification beeped in on my Facebook. It didn't seem like me receiving my porn, instead, it was a poem from someone with no profile picture or picture on his wall. His username says Mr Romantic and his poem read, I can never look at a drop of dew in a buttercup without beholding shafts of love in the retreats of your eyes In you there is unity; your face and form is a blend of perfect line and contour

I have not let a woman hold me since. Eve’s other hand comes to rest on my chest and she takes it on a similar journey as the first, along the other side. Wherever she touches, I feel as though I am being set ablaze, but not with fire. With passion. It feels so good, so good. Touch all of me. All of me. Please.

The lines between desire and reason blurred, and I found myself succumbing to the magnetic pull he exerted over me. His fingers, long and sinewy, reached out and brushed against the fabric of my shirt. The touch was feather-light, yet electrifying. It sent a cascade of goosebumps along my skin, awakening a dormant fire within me. I gasped, unable to control the tremor that coursed through my body. His touch continued, gliding along my soft, exposed skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. I closed my eyes, unable to resist the sensations that overwhelmed me. Every nerve ending sparked to life as his fingers traced invisible patterns, setting my senses ablaze.

But the moment he settled beside me, the instant his familiar warmth brushed against my arm, a fragile, involuntary tremor ran through my entire being. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently cupping my cheek, his touch surprisingly soft, reverent. “Amara…” His thumb, strong and sure, brushed delicately beneath my eye, wiping away a tear I hadn’t even realized had escaped, a silent testament to the grief that still clung to me. His touch was like a balm, a soothing presence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. It was simply there, a quiet offering of comfort and understanding. I leaned into his hand without conscious thought, drawn to his unwavering strength like a wilting flower t

I knew what it felt like to be touched by someone who actually wanted to touch me—not because it was expected or because they wanted something in return, but because they genuinely couldn't keep their hands off me. I knew what it felt like to have Victor's large, warm palm pressed against my lower back, working out the tension with skilled precision while his voice rumbled in my ear telling me to breathe. I knew what it felt like to have Dante's strong hands gripping my thighs, spreading me open, holding me exactly where he wanted me while his mouth did things that made me forget my own name. Rob's touch was nothing compared to that. Nothing at all. It was like comparing a candle to the sun.

Maybe it’s just in my mind, but the only thing I feel as his hand touches my upper arm is sparks. No sizzling, no burning.