Fat Guy With Dreads Novels & Stories

This guy was exactly who I would always lust over but never have a chance in hell with actually dating. He’d let his hair grow out this past month and just shaved it a bit underneath like Jude does. Now he had a messy carmel colored shaggy mess and when he sweats … oh fuck its hot. Illegal. “I want to ask you something, for real … for real on the real,” I said, taking off my gloves. He laughed, flashing his perfect white smile. For weeks now he’d become a good friend, someone I confided in about all my fat girl issues. Okay my mental issues, who knows.

she gasped, her face screwed up in disgust. He grinned down at her, his crooked teeth gleaming in the dim streetlights. He was wearing baggy ripped blue jeans and a grey T-shirt that moulded to his hard, lean muscles. His head was shaved and tattoos showed on every visible part of his body, including a grinning skull plastered across his face. Most of his tats were emblazoned with gang images. He reached out to grab her again and she threw up a hand to push him away.

I could see the male on the other side of the one-way mirror in his cheap suit, his pot belly bursting the seams of the nasty fabric, as he stuffed another pastry in his mouth. "Greedy bastard!" Wrath scoffed, watching with me as he shovelled it in his mouth like it was to be his last meal. He was in his early 50s, sporting a receding hairline and dead eyes that I could only imagine were from seeing far too much evil in this world.

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

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.