A Delicate Touch: Micro-Fiction #Monday’sMuse #Romance #Fiction

Watching him took her breath away. It was strange how he was so out of place on that land, and yet, somehow, he fit. 

It shouldn’t have shocked her. Although he’d been a drifter all of his life, farming was in his blood, or as he had reluctantly shared with her, horses.

He’d moved to town, taking ownership of his great-uncle’s farm when her parents’ loan had defaulted and ownership reverted back to the Latfield’s next of kin. Sage Latefield was that man.

Without him having said so, Livia knew that her family’s loss had become the biggest break in Sage’s life. He seemed to light up whenever he looked over the land, ran his fingers over the swaying heads of grass as if he were touching precious children.

The man had a delicate touch. She didn’t know it personally but the more she watched him, the more she learned him, the more she wanted to.


*I hope you enjoyed that little nugget of Livia’s thoughts toward Sage Latefield. I had to stop there as the story has done far more talking than I expected and has given me the synopsis for a full-length novel, or a decent sized novella. Either way, there is much more to their story than the 150 words or so, shared today. Thanks for reading my results for Mondays’ Muse Writing Prompt August 14th, 2017.

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!


With These Hands: A Short Story…Of Sorts

His hands were beautiful, perfectly formed, visibly strong.

She nibbled her lip, devouring her smile as she gazed upon them.  Exquisite masculine fingers, wrapped tenderly against  and around the spine, balancing its weight with capable fingertips, as if it weighed nothing. Touching ever so softly that which was precious to him.

She could just melt, turn into a puddle of malleable submission right in that very moment, watching the way he turned and tenderly touched the pages of his warn bible with awe and reverence, his full lips mouthing the living words out loud.

Faith comes by hearing, she watched as the words formed, drawn again to those lips, by those hands that touched them.

Oh how she loved him. How she loved that heart that beat first for the God of Heaven, the God who was his King…and then for her.

She loved his hands.

She loved the way he used them to gently nudge the thin wire frames of his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. She loved the way those very hands would raise in worship, tears of adoration glistening like the rain and anointing oil from heaven’s wellsprings down the sides of his chiseled face, out of peaceful eyes.

She loved the way those hands held her close, cradling her against him, in the good, the bad, in sickness and in health, til death and even then his hands would keep them from parting.

His hands…

With these hands I thee wed.

With these hands I uphold thee.

With these hands I worship.

With these hands.

She waited until he whispered his “amen” as she said the words with him. Coaxing a smile from his eyes and a kiss from his lips as he caressed her cheek with his hands.


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