When They Touch Me Novels & Stories

“Did they give you something? You’re burning up." “I’m okay.” “You’re not okay.” “I am. Just, could you . . . not touch me?” “What?” She examines my face. I do feel like I’m boiling. “My skin. Could you please not— ” “What the fuck?” Touch me. “Anna? Anna!” And that, as they say, is that.

"Let me lead you." I hesitated for just a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to touch him. But not in a casual, friendly way. No, I wanted a touch that ignited every particle within me, one that promised warmth against the winter chill. Gathering my breath, I slid my palm into his. The moment our hands met sent a shock of warmth rushing up my arm, tingling across my skin like tiny fireworks. I gasped, unprepared for the intensity of the sensation, the way it made my heart leap and my cheeks blush with embarrassment.

I move to drop the tray on the mini table when his hands close around my wrist, sending mini sparks flying across my body in response to the mate bond. "Wait," he says. "Actually — wait." The whole rooftop seems to lean in a fraction, the way crowds do when they smell a scene about to happen. "Elias—" "You know what," his voice climbs, eyes glinting with the particular cruelty that alcohol always dragged out of him, "I don't actually want that." He knocks the bowl clean out of my hands. It hit the floor with a crack loud enough to cut through the music — broth splashing across the marble, across my shoes, up the hem of the gray dress his mother had approved that very afternoon. A few people

And whoever it was, would taste my wrath and wish he or she had never been born. My thoughts drove me into a frenzy. The girl was screaming at the top of her lungs but she couldn't tell me to stop. Finally, I felt the sweet pull in my stomach and spilled inside of her. I flopped on the bed, satisfied with my release. Then I said, "Go again. Boy, you're next."

When we first got together, I accidentally touched her arm, and she sprang back as if she had been electrocuted. Not only did she wipe her arm with a wet tissue multiple times, but she also ignored me for a month after that. Although we had made our relationship public, we never kissed or hugged each other. There was even a wet tissue separating our hands when we held hands for the first time. On our first anniversary, we went to a movie. I finally mustered my courage and held her hand. Despite being in public, she shot up to her feet and screamed. Then, she left in a hurry.

Every strange silence and every moment in the greenhouse suddenly seemed to point toward this exact one. “Kael…” His name left my mouth as little more than a warning. Or maybe a plea. I wasn’t entirely sure. Neither option felt particularly encouraging. But he reached for me then, his hand settling lightly against my waist, and the simple contact sent a ridiculous amount of thrill racing through me. My heart immediately decided to stop behaving like a respectable organ. “What?” I whispered. His eyes never left mine. “Harlow.” The way he said my name made something inside me wobble. Goodness.

With my blurry vision, I pushed my door open, the harsh action had it banging on the opposite wall. Hurling my bag on the floor I made a beeline for my bed. After sitting for quite a few minutes just sobbing, I finally had the courage to look at my arm. His grip was so hard that my once blemish-free skin now had the print of rough fingers wrapped around my upper arm. I touched the skin tenderly, my stomach twisting with unease.

Gosh! They are a sensation in the shifter school we go to, the pack. In fact, anywhere they go coz girls chase them from all angles, which I think they don't like. Well, at least with my features, I'm spared from all that disturbance from the gross boys in school and the pack. Though some girls would ask me to link them with any of my charming brothers and I'd simply smirk and say nothing. If they harmed me badly, they won't end well.

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.”

His hands stayed at his sides, but his eyes burned into me like touch. I lifted his hand and placed it on my waist. He exhaled, slow and controlled. “I don’t mix business with pleasure,” I whispered. He leaned down, his mouth at my ear. “Good thing I’m not here for pleasure.” Then he let his hand slide away. The ache inside me throbbed like a fresh bruise. I stepped back, cheeks flushed, arousal soaking the inside of my thighs. I returned to the painting, the air charged now with something molten.