Iman Gadzhi Physique Novels & Stories

My heart was in my throat as I watched him walk towards me. Zaire wasn't tall, nor was he a short guy. Since I was 6'3 ,I would assume that he was probably around 5'10. He was wearing blue pajama bottoms and a grey hoodie that looked similar to one of the many ones I owned. He had on a pink bonnet on his head, which made him look so cute. Not cute like a girl, but cute like a strong athletic guy with clear skin and a pink bonnet on his head.

“Little One! I feel you, it’s faint but I know you’re here. Please talk to me?” He has a thick Turkish accent, and skin the colour of rich gravy. He’s six-foot-three, muscular, barrel chested, and his arm and leg muscles would put most body builders to shame. His head is shaved and he has wide full lips and a wide Nubian nose. His round eyes are black, and he has short stubble, shaved with straight lines. But his eyes look sunken, like he’s ill.

She would've at least helped herself with a cup of hot beverage if she didn't constantly think that Adam neared insanity with each second wasted. The door opened seconds after her first ring to a god in a white towel that secured his lower body in contrast to his upper body which left nothing to the imagination. The ridges on his firm abdomen were as deep as a valley and his strong chest was beautifully molded. Gianna burned with envy of every droplet of water that slid from his hair down his shoulders and through every nook and crook of his sexy upper body.

But soon I realised what I was doing. Astaghfirullah!!(God forbade) I separated my self from him and saw his face. "Oh my God!!! He's so handsome." I thought. He was so much handsome. Just like a Greek God . His biceps were bulging out of his sleeves . He's I guess 6'2 ft . His face handsome, his perfect pink lips , light stubble, and sharp jaw . Every thing about him was amazing. "Done staring at me?" he said

Eighteen years ago, it was a cliché I hated almost every Sunday. Sharp at nine in the morning Jogu Mama would be at our doorstep. Every Sunday without fail. Always in a white shirt and a pair of loose grey trousers. He never tucked in his shirt and never wore a vest under it then. His complexion was, I mean, it still is, like the paint of our doors and windows, dark brown, and so his shirt, despite all its whiteness, couldn’t hide the dark torso underneath. The thick gold chain that he flaunted around his neck, the golden dial HMT watch he wore on his right hand and the three gold rings he wore on his ring finger, middle finger and index finger (with coloured gem stones on them) were in star

Abdullah raised an eyebrow at him, still feeling a bit fuzzy after that sight he witnessed. "It's already here?" he asked, sitting down with his golden brown-haired friend. Zain was from Kashmir and his golden-brown eyes and hair made it evident. He wasn't very handsome but the striking color of his eyes and silky hair made him stand out. In addition to that, his goofy and cheerful personality made him more appealing to women not to mention, his kind nature. Abdullah was the total opposite of him, with black hair and dark green eyes. His complexion was a bit pale as well and he mostly remained quiet and serious, coming off as unfriendly.

Now, here he was, her unexpected saviour. Her eyes wandered over his features, taking in details she had never noticed before. Up close, Zayn Graham was even more impressive than his photos in business magazines suggested. He was tall, Rina guessed around 6'7", with broad shoulders filling out his expertly tailored suit. His skin was light, a contrast to his short dark hair. A neatly trimmed light beard and moustache framed his strong jaw. Everything about him exuded wealth and power, from his perfectly polished shoes to the subtle glint of an expensive watch on his wrist.

He told Zara this with the kind of pride that made you wonder if he also bragged to the mirror. He was enormous. 6’5”, dark, shoulders wider than most doorways, chest carved like it belonged in a museum. He moved like a gorilla: heavy legs thudded against the ground. A tight black shirt clung to his lumpy arms, trousers held by a belt adorned with skulls and bones. On one finger glinted a gaudy ring. And those dark glasses hid eyes that promised trouble. Zara’s gaze swept him from head to toe. Terrifying.

It was a softer name, easier on the tongue than the sharp, Latinate edges of his given name. Ressi was not a giant of a man, standing about five feet seven inches, but he was hewn from wire and granite. His body possessed the lean, functional musculature of someone who had never known a day of leisure. There was no vanity in his build; his shoulders were broad from carrying sacks of maize, his forearms roped with veins from gripping hoes and machetes. He wore a faded, oversized t-shirt that had once been blue but was now a wash of indeterminate grey, and trousers that ended in frayed hems just above his bare, calloused feet. He held a long, dry stick in his right hand, absentmindedly poking

When Adrian finally came out of the bathroom, ten minutes later, he was barefoot and wearing only a pair of black pajama pants that rode low on his hips. My eyes betrayed me, trailing over him before I could stop myself. He wasn’t like other men I knew. Many of them, after marriage, let themselves gain weight. But Adrian hadn’t softened at all. His chest and arms were carved muscle, his abdomen was taut, his presence radiated strength and control. There was nothing gentle about him, not in his body, not in his expression, not even in those sharp stormy eyes.