Man Without Ties Novels & Stories

I may as well give up now this shit isn’t worth it. I am in a pinstripe suit. It's seen better days but what do I care? It’s just another business meeting. Orlando probably looks the same. Like he has no care in the world. I straighten my tie and sigh heavily before leaving the bedroom. I looked at Orlando and I was right. He looked at me with a grin expression. I could see this shit getting to him as well. “You look like shit bro.” “Thanks, love you too, by the way you look like shit to.”

We all need a good distraction from time to time. The man I've been waiting for walks out of the dining room proving all of Cammie's words true. His hair is gelled perfectly and flops just the right amount to the left side. I don't know what he does for a living, but he's never worn a suit and tie, yet somehow, he makes his tight-fitting jeans cradle his ass. You could probably bounce a quarter off of his tight butt cheeks. The long sleeve thermal shirt with an unbuttoned flannel on top is enough to make any girl soon. It's like he's a… Metrosexual lumberjack.

She uses braces, even though her teeth are straight and perfect. She wears a dark-colored foundation on her exposed skin, to look darker than her usual fair skin tone. Her clothes are loose and ill-fitting, not at all suitable for her frame. But living between the made men is like living in the middle of the beasts. You should always be on guard. So she disguised herself as a freak. That worked and no one usually looks at her a second time. She usually blends in well with her surroundings, never garnering attention to herself. LUCA Vitiello is the Boss of the New York outfit. Since the time he became the Boss, he started to take over almost half the other outfits under his control. Now, more

a man with a white mandarine shirt and muzta dictates, boldly with his finger on me. "Yeah, she will bring the wrath of God's upon us Father!" "We can't have her here!" claims the another The words traveled, one after the other, and the muffling noise grew louder. Demanding me to repent and atone for my sin which I have never committed. They can’t have such a sinner here, they said. People dressed in a certain kind of clothing, --usually black or white long dress and mutza- have never committed such sin. Therefore, they have a very right to condemn others who did commit such sin.

But some people just love pushing their luck. "Your private beach?" Ralph looked me up and down with open contempt. His eyes lingered on my slightly faded T-shirt and plain swim shorts, and his grin grew wider. I narrowed my eyes and stepped forward. "Do you have any idea who I am?" My presence made him flinch for a second. Then, the crony next to Ralph leaned in and whispered something. Whatever fear he had instantly turned into smug arrogance. "I see. So you're Clive, the useless husband Ms. Stokes keeps at home, huh?"

“Why we didn’t bring anyone.” Ainara smirked. “Because we didn’t want to.” “Or because we couldn’t.” They both fell silent. Behind the family’s laughter, the two of them had their own world—quiet, messy, and full of questions. “Isn’t it awkward?” Ainara whispered. “Which part?” “That we’re the only ones without a plus one.” Andres smiled. “We’re each other’s plus one.” She laughed. “That’s not how it works.” “Maybe it should be.”

I had never seen him like this. The armor was gone. His suit jacket was missing, draped somewhere in his own office. His silk tie—usually knotted with military precision—hung loose and undone around his collar. His dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. He didn't look angry. He didn't look like the CEO of a billion-dollar empire. He looked... undone. He looked like a man who had carried the weight of the sky on his shoulders for fourteen hours and was finally letting it slide off.

He stands at the end of the path, turned away from me, listening to what someone is whispering in his ear—his best man, perhaps. I can’t get a good look at his face, but I know what to expect from the picture I was given weeks ago: handsome, striking, unsmiling. His hair is short, a rich brown cut to a buzz; his suit was black, well fitted across his broad shoulders. He’s the only man in the room not wearing a tie, and yet he manages to look elegant anyway.

The velvet rope was unhooked without a word A man sat on the couch inside the cordoned area, a huge cigar resting between two fingers, a glass of something deeply expensive in his other hand. He looked like he was in his early thirties — lean with blond hair that caught the red light in a way that made it look almost copper, blue eyes that were sharp and amused, already assessing me before I’d fully stepped into the place. He wore his wealth easy, like a second skin—unbuttoned shirt opened all the way to the bottom of his sternum , no tie, sleeves rolled up to show forearms with veins. “Donovan!” He yelled, standing up from his chair to hug him. “So good to see you. Wow, you never stop with

I locked the door, heart hammering hard enough to crack ribs. No time to calm down. I dove under the covers and pulled up my phone. On Mischief & Mayhem, the post had gone nuclear. OP had updated with a photo that reeked of despair. That priceless tie had been brutally knotted into a massive lump, cinched just below the man's Adam's apple. The knot was so tight it had warped the shirt collar, making him look like a survivor who'd just escaped an execution.