Romans & histoires Brandon Ness

a smooth voice teased. I jumped. Brandon. He leaned against the doorframe, his lopsided grin in place, dark eyes scanning me with casual flirtation. He was dressed sharp today—navy suit, no tie, top button undone. Not as sinful as Ryan, but dangerously charming in his own right. “I’m being productive,” I said stiffly, closing the incriminating tabs. “Just…research.” He stepped in without asking. “You always research with that kind of concentration? I waved twice and you didn’t even blink.”

The cars driving into the compound caught their attention cassandra was in a short white pant and a crop top while tay had a beige pant with Kerl's shirt. “Wow, it's finally show time '' Brandon says with so much relief like this was some game to them. “Right this way gentlemen '' Brandon walks over to Roland and Henry who had smugs on their faces. “This place hasn't changed so much since the last time,” Roland says but Brandon is not in the mood for his sarcasm or bad manners. “It certainly hasn't, but you would have known if it did... But it is rather unfortunate you almost had your brother killed '' Brandon replies with a dangerous smug. His phone was hanging in clear view. He was ruthles

I don’t know the voice before I recognize the face. “Fuck”, I say under my breath, “Brandon". He is one of the few kills in my career that I couldn’t accomplish. He stares at me with deep brown eyes fixed inside deep sockets. His skin is almost the complexion of coal. 6'9 and all shoulders, he towers over all of us. Muscles from a naturally active lifestyle ripple under his taut skin. He watches me out of the corner of his eye, and I can tell he wants to kill me---shoot me.

In a family defined by massive egos, volcanic tempers, and enough shredded muscle to fill a stadium, you needed someone to keep the pot from boiling over. Brandon wasn't just some impulsive brawler, though. At 6’4”, with heavy shoulders and a frame built for impact, his prowess on the ice was undisputed. Along with Viktor Petrov, he formed the defensive spine of the Stormbreakers—Viktor was the silent sentinel, while Brandon was the life of the party. That lifestyle hadn't been an issue until a certain elegant journalist decided to splash Brandon’s late-night exploits across a digital front page, earning him a half-season suspension for "conduct detrimental to the pack."

Kinsey assured. Brandon hesitated momentarily, unsure how to respond to Kinsey's unwavering faith in him. He felt guilty for not telling Kinsey his real identity, but it wasn't the right time to discuss it. He doesn't need a job, as he already runs his own empire. "I appreciate your confidence in me, Kinsey," Brandon replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I'll do my best to get a good job to support both us and Connor," he added, trying to avoid the discussion and hoping Kinsey would leave the topic.

Brandon asked caressing my cheek. "What are you talking about?" I frowned. "Is anything wrong? For quite two months, it seems like something is off. Sometimes you seem restless or I don't know. What happened, baby?" Brandon said. Baby? Huh! I looked at him from head to toe. He was naked. His muscular body was shining as the water ran through his perfect deep curves. His voice sounded sincere. How good of an actor are you, Brandon Shield? How long do you plan on stretching this drama of yours?

But I would never hide or cower from this man. “Looky looky.” He smirked as he crouched down. He smiled, and I could tell he was really enjoying this. The sick fuck. “You messed up, girl.” I scoffed and rolled my eyes. What could we have possibly done in here? He’s an idiot. Nix shook her head but settled at the barrier in case Megan needed her. “You pranced around here, with your scent clogging up this place.” Brandon took in a deep breath. “I’ll give it to you. You smell delicious. But my dad doesn’t like distractions, and that is exactly what you have become.”

His features were more striking, his presence more commanding than I had anticipated. As Brandon drew nearer, I couldn't help but notice the striking contrast between his presence and mine. Standing at five feet nine, I was accustomed to being the tallest among the Volkov ladies, but Brandon seemed to tower over me at a height that must have been at least six feet five. It was a reassuring thought, knowing that I wouldn't have to worry about wearing heels around him; our heights complemented each other effortlessly.

he replied looking back at Imogen before looking down at the train, pootling down the city. “Where are you?” “The safe house.” “Okay be there in two, ” he assured. Brandon is the doctor to the pack. He is also a werewolf who is 200 years old. He looks extremely young and handsome. His short curly hair, black eye, sophisticated lips said it all. He looks very breathtaking. Oliver threw his phone on the other sofa and held his hand groaning in pain, he sprawled on the sofa and rested his back before sighing. Suddenly the table in front of him screeched. He tumbled to the back of the chair in reflex and looked at the table which was looking absolutely normal.

“Oh, never mind.” Perhaps he read what’s on my mind. “Come on, let’s do the grocery together.” “R-really?” I stammered. “I mean, what?” Brandon flashed his million dollar smile to me. One that worked wonders with closing deals with premium clients for the hotel. I hate that he had this effect on me because that’s his generic smile. Boy-next-door meets corporate. Deadly with women. I wonder why he’s single. Maybe he plays on the other team? I hope not! Such a waste!