The first time you held my hand a short story by Ina Morata

The first time you held my hand

It seems to be prevalent at the moment that those who attended Eroticon at the weekend are suffering from post-con blues. I am no exception, and this may go a long way towards the inherent tone of this short but heartfelt little piece for #WickedWednesday.

Happy reading!

Ina x

I wonder if you remember the first time you held my hand? I didn’t expect it, that slip of your skin against mine as we walked, the summertime heat leaving your palm warm. Just the slightest of touches set a spark inside me, igniting my blood; it was the way your fingers encased mine leaving me simmering with desire and an anticipation I dare not express, even to myself. You were just making sure I was safe, weren’t you? Did you know that even the smallest brush of your skin against mine set my emotions in turmoil?

I don’t know how such a tiny thing, such a small action amid so many others that went on around us, could make me feel so special. So loved. But it did. We walked along, connected by this smallest of touches of flesh on flesh, the air around us filling with unspoken desire.

The second that no one was looking, you pulled me hard against you, spinning me round into your chest. Not once while you kissed me did you let go of my hand. Your lips were as warm, as soft, as your fingers. The exquisite pain of something indescribable filled me, flowing between my thighs and scalding me with need. All I wanted was for you to let me in, show me that close-guarded world inside your head. To tell me what you wanted from me. Because you would have had it. I would have given you anything, any part of me you wanted. The tears built beneath my eyelids; the as yet ungiven desire wracking right through me. You never said you saw. Did you realise, even then, how I felt about you?

When your mouth released me, my eyes found yours shining back at me. They were beautiful, your eyes. So intense. I’m not sure which made me love you more – the hold your gaze had over me or knowing that, for this moment at least, I was still connected to you through the clutch of our hands, our fingers interlocking in a way I wished the rest of our bodies could do. You brought our hands up together, and stroked my face with the side of your thumb. I can still feel the trail of it over my cheek, down against the line of my jaw and circling behind my ear. I tilted my head to meet it and I smiled. Was it that, or the quiver running through me that made you smile in response?

You had to let me go eventually. I remember it; the chasm that opened up and swallowed my desires, and my heart, as I had to say goodbye to your touch, and the unresolved desires that rippled through the space between us. I never said, but I wanted you right then, where we were, and I would have given every part of my body to you, if only you had trailed your hand over the rest of me with that same soft touch of your palm. I still feel the heat – of you, of my passion, of the electricity between us.

And every day – every moment of every single day – it hurts more than you will ever know that I can’t feel the touch of your body pressed close, your lips exploring my lips, your hand in mine. And that I don’t know if I ever will again.

If you enjoyed this story, you might like the other sexy tales in the Short Stories section of my blog.

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15 thoughts on “The first time you held my hand

  1. Posy Churchgate says:

    Rebel’s coined exactly the right word – bittersweet and (sadly) very relatable. Yeah the con-drop was quite intense for me too, I should have capitalised on it and written something lovelorn and poignant too, but you have totally nailed it with this unrequited love/lust moment. Great job.


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