Just By Looking At Him Novels & Stories

I didn’t even need to look to know it was him. I turned, and there he was. Leaning against the bar like the entire club was a set piece and he was the lead. Black shirt, sleeves rolled high on lean forearms, collar open just enough to tease. Sharp jaw, a curl of hair that dipped carelessly toward his brow. And that look—predatory, dark, unbothered by the noise around him. He wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t even pretending to blend. He was watching me. My stomach tightened, heat licking low. God, I hated men like that. The type who didn’t need to move to command a room. The type you swore you’d never give the satisfaction of knowing they had you hooked… while your pulse was already racing to their

He is now holding a shot of brandy. I wasn't even embarrassed that I was staring at him. His lips looked so kissable. His smile, he looks kind to everyone but his jaw says the opposite. He looks rough with his jawline. His skin is naturally brown, he has a pointed nose. Bitch! He’s too hot!

I’m glad that he is looking at the lake as I must be looking like the most embarrassing tomato on earth. As I risk a look, I find him watching the surface of the lake concentrated. And I must say that he is quite the eye-catcher. It’s not only that he is tall and broadly built but also his squared jaw, the dark expressive eyes, and the high cheekbones that must set every she-wolf under a spell. The way the moon shines on his features has him looking even more gorgeous. And now you are drooling. He clenches his jaw shortly before he turns to me, lifting his brow. The action tears me out of my daydream, but I guess it is too late to regain some of my decency.

before I even look up. Navy and black. That’s the first thing I notice. Crisp, fitted shirt, jacket that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Then my eyes meet his. Sharp. Not sharp like knives — sharp like he’s really looking, seeing, not just glancing at my face and moving on. He holds my gaze for a beat too long, but not in a creepy way. Like he’s… listening. And I haven’t even said anything. “You alright?” he asked me in an even voice. No judgement in it.

Rich boys were always the same. I got a better look at him as he approached my table and though I hated to admit it, he was one of those people that looked far better in person. Short, cropped blonde hair framed his face. Light blue eyes, the colour of a summer sky, held mine captive beneath a strong brow. Full, pink lips contrasted with a sharp and strong jawline. His charcoal suit hugged his well-defined physique, and his towering height only added to his imposing presence. I didn’t know I was staring until he said, “What are you looking at?”

Byron looked like a fucking storm. he didn’t have to say anything. didn’t even have to try. I just stood there, eyes catching on me like I was something worth looking at. like I meant something. He looked so good it made my stomach hurt. like i wanted to punch him in the face just for existing like that—perfect, golden, unreal. The kind of man you only saw on magazine covers or olympic podiums. He had his sleeves rolled up, collar loose, a smirk that made me want to throw myself off a cliff and let him catch me halfway down.

Suddenly he looks a touch nervous. He doesn't get bothered about people looking at him anymore. In fact, now he jokes he was made so big to keep other men from looking at me. I roll my eyes whenever he teases about it. His jealousy is adorable to me. It's not so adorable to the guys he mean-mugs for looking at me, though. That look only makes me giggle while others turn and run the other way. I don't think they're checking me out, but he's says I don't notice.

He’s standing near the scaffolding, sleeves of his faded gray shirt rolled up to reveal forearms marked with ink, his hair is dark full and it falls carelessly across his forehead and his shoulders are broad big and wide unlike the lanky boys and men who attend church. Even with all the hardness, his posture is relaxed but coiled in a way that doesn’t match the softness of this town. He doesn’t look like he belongs here. And that’s exactly why I can’t look away. I watch him drag a cloth across the wood beam, focused but then, as if he could feel me staring he glances up. Our eyes meet and It’s such a simple thing. Just one look. But it doesn’t feel simple. Because his gaze doesn’t dart away

Somehow, my eyes were glued to him. He had a well-defined jawline, angular cheekbones, and sharp features. His dark brown hair seemed unruly and he had a bored look on his face as if he had seen tonnes of beautiful women before and the novelty had worn off. For all I knew that could very well be the case. But then he was the only one not gawking at us so I tried to distract myself by observing him. And somehow as if he knew I was staring at him, his eyes flew open before I could look away.

I study his face. He looks like a man who does not find a lot of things funny but when he does it is probably worth seeing. Strong jaw. Dark hair cut short. Eyes that are doing something thoughtful even in a casual photo. He is standing beside a car in one picture and something about the way he holds himself tells me he is not someone who gets surprised easily. Good, I think. Because what I am about to show him is going to be a lot. I click the friend request button before I can talk myself out of it.