Fat Guy With Dreads の小説・ストーリー

He was indeed a catch. Chad has a well-built body, a result of his active lifestyle. He has a long undercut hairstyle of deep black hair, which he would casually tie in a messy bun. He has an expressive set of ash gray eyes. He is tall. He looks dashing and smart, especially when he wears his round eyeglasses while doing his things with his talented fingers in front of a computer.

A group of big bodybuilder guys with black-on-black suits and that black shades pass by surrounding someone. It must be him, who else has so many bodyguards? I try to peek through them when they come to a standstill but nothing. I stand on my chair to try and see over the monster of a guy. That's when he dropped something and one of the guys bent to pick it up. For an old guy he's not gross, he is handsome, if you are into sugar daddies. Grey hair, tall and well not chubby. More like a George Clooney type. Yeah, Clooney look alike. A bunch of papers are laying on the floor. Macho man, starts gathering all the documents in his monster hands.

A short burly man with ash brown hair crossed his hands in front of his chest. He had a thick mustache and beard, and this unreadable expression on his face. He was wearing a head protector made of iron, a google slinging on his neck, and a grey tank top with black stains and sweat. His brown baggy pants that reached his ankle was held by black suspenders. His feet was bare, and it was noticably big. "I don't like sweets."

What the fuck did I ever see in this guy? I look him over wrinkling my nose in revulsion as I take in his appearance with new eyes. Mitchell is 5’9” with skin so white it’s like the printer ran out of ink. It’s like his flesh is begging for sunlight. He has mousey brown hair with that early 2000s emo style to it, compared to the slicked-back hair he used to sport. He used to be physically fit, not muscular, but lean. But a year of playing video games and scarfing down pizza and beer has done him no favours. He’s got a tiny gut now, which doesn’t bother me. He has lost some weight in recent months, which I can assume was to impress Julie. I used to love this guy, I really did, but now the ver

He was dressed in a pair of loose black fleece sweatpants that hung low on his hips, paired with a dark red hoodie that made his broad shoulders look impossibly wide. His hands were crossed tightly over his chest, his biceps bulging against the fabric, and his long, luscious, dark brown hair was sleeked completely back away from his face, still looking slightly damp from a recent shower. Unlike the two of us—who looked like a total, sweaty, disheveled mess after a night in a dusty warehouse—Garret looked completely sleek, neat, and infuriatingly put together. The absolute contrast made me seethe my teeth angrily, a sharp wave of defensive fury washing over my chest. And fuck me, the dude loo

Rose Watson spent years surviving two things: poverty… and David Robinson. Soccer prodigy. Male model. Arrogant jerk. He made fun of her weight and her poverty. She made sure he regretted opening his mouth. They fight. They insult each other. They can't stand being in the same room. Until one engagement changes everything. Forced to work side by side, Rose discovers that her worst enemy is hiding secrets she never expected—and David realizes the "fat girl" he mocked all his life is the only woman he can't walk away from. But when hatred turns into desire, and old wounds refuse to heal. Who will surrender first? Her biggest bully. His greatest nemesis. One lov

I’ll just take it slow when I decide to approach him. I watch him as he talks to his friends. He is laughing and having a good time. He is tall, big, a tattoo on his lower leg shows but I can’t make out what it is. He has no muscles, but is still strong. Like what humans call a dad bod. Oooo so hot! His hair is reddish brown, and it is cut short. You can tell if it was longer, it would be wavey or curly. He has a shadow where his mustache should be.

Only one seat was occupied. Alpha Ryker. He sat at the head like he owned the world, which, around here, he basically did, dressed in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The fabric stretched across his broad shoulders and powerful arms, hinting at the lethal strength beneath. He cut into his lasagna with precise, unhurried movements, every motion controlled. The smell hit me like a punch. Rich cheese, fresh herbs, warm bread. My traitorous stomach growled loud enough to wake the dead.

He sips his coffee with problematic thoughts, though he tries to manage and get a hold of them one by one. "Are you ok?" She asked with concern. By the few glances she made, she observed that this guy was physically unkept or unhinged. His appearance speaks like he's been wallowed in sadness for years. He had this long hair that she couldn't figure out how long it was because it was fixed in a bun below his nape. And his beard that was roughly everywhere on his face and neck. Coming along with his oversized gray hoodie with a few stains on it, pairing it with black jogger pants with a pair of sandals. It only shows that he never cares so much about himself.

I'm noticing that his sideburns are becoming gray, making him look like a silver fox. My eyes search for Wyatt but land on someone else. A boy, no wait, not a boy—a large man, is drinking water. His broad back faces me, and his sweaty skin is stretched over dense muscles and profound valleys. He is only wearing beige yoga pants, and his ass is juicy, firm, and constricts tightly as he turns around. Who is this guy? My brain forgets how to function, forgets how to suck oxygen into my lungs to keep me breathing as I watch him move. Holy fuck, calling this guy hot would be the understatement of the year—he is as sexy as they come.