Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

“The way he looks at me?” “Yes. I know. It’s how my husband looks at me, how Rafe looks at Marge,” she paused. “Max was right about her brother. He barely talks. And when he does, all he talks about is business. Do you know what they call him in the business world? They named him “The Ruthless Magnate”. And he sure to live up to his name. He seized property by property, whenever he gets the opportunity, building his empire of hotels. But everytime he looks at you, I see tenderness, gentleness, love. Something I have never seen before,” Beatrice gave her a smile and a gentle squiz in her hand. “Honey, whatever situation you are in, whatever set up you and my son have, as long as both of you a

They didn’t give me any clothes, so I still wore Rage’s T-shirt from when I crawled into my bed. I traced his face with my eyes, praying to see one ounce of humanity left there, but there was nothing but a huge scar across his face. The scar Rage gave him. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be begging for me,” he whispered, leaning forward. “You’ll need me like you think you need him.” “I don’t sleep with guys with messed up faces,” I spit.

Wearing smug breaches, tucked into the top of his high riding boots, a white shirt, navy waistcoat, long tailed riding jacket and a carelessly tied cravat, Eastland looked the epitome of a rugged gentleman. He was carrying a short riding crop in his strong brown hands and taped it idly against his boots top as he looked from the horse to Cassy. Her heart thumped harder. His tawny hair was wind ruffled, and his green eyes were bright beneath the thick, dark fan of his lashes. Sunlight glided through his hair with pail light and gleamed on his chestnut color skin, and Cassy thought crazily what it must be like for him to look that good; it was appalling that she

Apparently, he was a dandy, as he was dressed in the latest fashion, a shirt with ruffles at the cuffs and very tight, jacket with gold buttons, typical red velvet cape of the duelists, linen pants and leather boots of calf, but the sword hanging from its side was a heavy Longsword and certainly not the rapier of a duelist. The dandy's hair was tied back in a ponytail by a ribbon, and his goatee was neatly trimmed and cared for, but his face bore the scars of a harsh past existence on or even beyond the borders of civilization. He gave the impression that he could find himself as comfortable in the imperial senate as killing goblins.

-I will fucking kill all of you someday. *** "That one," A well-dressed gentleman, in his mid fifty's pointed at the blue-eyed boy standing in the group. His buyer looked like a man one would meet in the rich district of London. Sauve and sophisticated. The man could even have a wife and children. However, his alter ego might have a lot of boys' skeletons in his closet.

Her gown is deep crimson, flowing with layers of silk. Her posture is impeccable, chin slightly raised. “Princess Elena of Romania,” she says, extending her hand, her voice rich with authority. “It is an honor to meet you.” I nod. “The honor is mine, Your Highness.” Next comes an older gentleman, wrapped in a woolen cloak of tartan—a deep green and blue plaid. The crest of his clan stitched across his chest. “Lord Hamish MacKenzie,” he says in a thick Scottish brogue, offering a polite nod. “A pleasure.”

I tap on a red button and stroll in. There's a towering figure staring at the sight of the city from the glass walls. His muscular arms are tucked in his pocket, his long legs hidden in a tailored black Armando tuxedo. He's large, a little taller than me, and his muscles look like they'll rip the tux apart in seconds.

The sight of the rider left her speechless and a bit weak at the knees. His rugged appearance shocked her, his strength evident in his muscled arms and legs. Rather than the fancy clothes of the English gentry, the beige shirt and brown leather vest of a farmer’s attire stretched taut across his wide chest, and the black material of his trousers molded to his legs and fit snugly into his black knee-boots. But this man was no farmer. That much appeared evident by the way he carried himself as he strode toward her, his step too confident, too graceful.

, Gentleman said and made her giggle. Aashmaan stood up on her feet but yelped. He held her firmly. Aashmaan opened her eyes only to meet the two black stones shining in the bright light. The gentleman saw her appearance and when his eyes landed on her torn dress and naked chest, he immediately closed his eyes and looked away from her. He gave his jacket to Aashmaan cover her body. Aashmaan grabbed his jacket and wore it. Her body was covered and she felt comfortable as she inhaled his masculine cologne that was not similar to that person who wrapped his shirt around her.

A singular gentleman—who appeared to be of great importance despite his haggard appearance—stood at the entrance, his hands folded behind his back. “Hello, hello! Good to see you. Good to see you.” He greeted his guests, making a great effort to acknowledge each and every one of them. He did not seem to be as well-heeled as the others, and he could not hide the groveling desperation in his voice when he shook their hands and asked how they were. It was almost like he was pleading with them for their business—begging them to enjoy the event so he might make a heftier coin off their presence. Even by the look of him, I could tell he was not a wealthy man. He wore rugged, wrinkled clothes, and