Freckled Guys Novels & Stories

In front of me were two muscle builders. Well not really. They have the looks but the scars on their faces made them look....well you know. Like a gangster. One of them was bald with a few scars on his body and face. He would have been handsome if it weren't for the few missing teeth. I wonder where his teeth are. And beside him is a brunette. He was very muscular. It's like 100% of his body is made out of muscles. He was also full of scars. One of them was connected to his lips making it look like his lips were sewn. Creepy.

I guess that was an essential perk needed to be a detective. "I was thinking about some guy I know who has freckles," I mocked, slipping into the driver's seat while he sat in the passenger's seat. "What's the big deal about my freckles?!" He groaned, "I kind of like them," "Of course, you would. Looking like a freckled teenager, aren't you?" He flipped me the finger and a boisterous laugh rumbled through me. He pointed to the sprinkle of freckles across his cheeks and nose. "Do you have any idea how many women love these bad boys?"

All of it felt impossibly distant now. She had seen the cracks. She could not unsee them. And worse—she had seen the faces. The figures had burned into her vision: the woman wild as a storm in the woods, earth clinging to her skin like armor, eyes fierce and unyielding. And the man, a shadow of waves, hair dripping with salt and brine, every breath of his chest echoing the tide’s hunger. Strangers, yet not strangers. Her body had recognized them. Her blood had reached for them.

“Nice of you to join us, Princess. Have they locked you up in there?” A blush works its way over my face as I continue to look down at Freddy. With his blonde hair and elegant body, he is the complete opposite of Lucas. Whereas my true mate is tall, swollen with muscle, and has darker hair and a lighter complexion, Freddy is tanned and sure, he is tall, but he is more ripped and lean. Comparing the two is like looking at Jason Momoa and a thinner Chris Hemsworth.

We have been walking for about ten minutes and it feels like it has just been seconds. "Why are we talking about that asshole? We should be talking about us..." he winks. "You know... You plus Me... We." I just laugh at that. "You are not my type, Flex." He holds his chest and gasps, gawking at me. "Did you just!" "Leather jacket + ripped jeans + Mohawk + too cute = Trouble." I've seen guys like Flex in college. They are heartbreak ambassadors and they sleep around and complain about their girlfriends being nothing but "crazy psychos"! Thank God I never dated one. I learnt from other girls' experiences.

I nodded a bit and was about to continue walking when I heard a voice. "How about playing with us?" It says. We quickly turned around to see who that person was, and then we saw three guys with their black clothes, smirking at us. I looked at them from head to toe. One has red hair, cool but it doesn't suit his skin color. One has a black hair, and I think he is the most handsome guy among the two and the other one has blonde hair, and for a guy, he is small. Are they wolves? A rogue specifically?

He fucked me in his room that night, and that’s where we have been doing it ever since. He did me whenever he could. He fucked fast and rough. Not that I cared. It was good, and FJ was just my type. He was built like a Greek god. Olive skin, slick black hair, 6’1 and ripped thanks to practically living at the gym every day. He was a hunk. I didn’t compare to him. I wasn’t ripped, but I kept a lean shape. My hair was thick and curly. My skin was dark like FJ’s too, but my face was freckled, which everyone always said made me look ‘cute’.

He suddenly turned to me, and I snapped my gaze back to the hunters, avoiding his eyes. There were four men. Two of them with huge body sizes and the other two just the normal size. One of the huge guys was hairy, with a full beard, long black locs, and a weird mustache. The other was the complete opposite; he had a bald head and no beard, but he was covered in tattoos, and he had his right ear pierced. The first of the slim guys had short black hair, with a scar running from his eyes down to the top of his lips like a tear. His whole left arm was covered in tattoos of weird patterns, and his eyes were dark as if they brooded evil. The second of the slim guys was a bit different; he had a sh

"And this one right here is my favorite." "How the fuck can you have a favorite freckle?" "Is that weird?" "Uh, yes?" Zane flares his nostrils. "And I don't have freckles. Only cute little children have them. But not me. Never me." I giggle at his pride. "What's so wrong about freckles? I have them exactly everywhere." "Yours are gorgeous," Zane is speaking in a gentler tone now. "You're a woman and a redhead—I love them on you."

A towering figure, tall and massive, walked with an air of intimidation. The man's physique was imposing, muscles straining against the fabric of his dark shirt. His skin was a tapestry of scars and tattoos, each one telling a story of a life lived on the fringes of society. This was Macho, a man known for his brutality and ruthlessness in the criminal underworld.