Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

I finally spotted a rugged man, covered in grease, crawling out from under a wrecked car. I blushed instantly, not because of how dirty he was, but because he exuded a raw, masculine energy that was hard to ignore. He was wearing only a tight white tank top, probably to stay cool while working, which made his muscular build even more pronounced. Sweat dripped down his tanned skin, soaking into his shirt and highlighting the firm contours of his chest. The sight was undeniably captivating. He twisted open a bottle of water and drank deeply, his Adam’s apple moving up and down with each gulp.

“I recognise that bike.” I stepped towards the leader of the group who had come a good ten metres closer than the rest of them; a tall gentleman, slim. Bright yellow stripes on his bike. Matching helmet. The London charter of the Henchmen. “Rogue, good to see you. I didn’t expect you to be in the area?” “Wasn’t planned, Duchess, I promise,” he replied, pulling his helmet off and giving me a smile that would have melted the pants off a lot of other women.

“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

“I want to help you. I want you to know that I’m not judging you, and I see the way you look at me. Everyone deserves a second chance—,” Rage bent down in front of me. “I’m a low down, dirty criminal and you want me?” he whispered. “You don’t know the real me, Neveah. You don’t know the things I’ve done. The demands a true drug dealer has for his employees. His puppets,” he whispered, his voice the roughest velvet I’ve ever felt against my skin.

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.

And that's when I saw him, seated in the corner of the room, looking at the menu. A man that looked like he was in his early thirties, with hair held up in a bun, around six feet tall and a body only the gods could have sculptured. I picked up his scent and could already tell that it was off. His scent made me uneasy, as he was probably untamed and I could sense that he was a man trying to blend in while the wild still clung on to him. He was a Rogue. A wolf without a pack that roamed the forests looking for anything that he could get his hands on.

I fell backwards to the ground, landing hard on my butt with an audible thump, and groaned at the thought of another bruise on my body. “I’m sorry ma’am, I wasn’t payin’ any attention.” A deep southern drawl rung out in front of me, and I looked to see an older gentleman about my fathers age staring down at me. He held out a hand for me to stand, and I took it gratefully, as he lifted me easily to my feet. “Haven’t seen you round here, visiting from out of town?” He had a large round face, with thin wrinkles surrounding his mouth, as if he had laughed too much in his life. Small but bright brown eyes sparkled back at me from behind thick rimmed glasses. A small pot belly stuck out from dark

Heh heh. When I walk up to the doors, the doormen rush to open the glass and brass, bowing in half like we're in some fucking samurai movie. At least the guys at the door know how to treat a gentleman with respect. I walk past like the badass shogun that I am, my jacket is my cape, ya'll, hiding my favorite piece, Mr. Smith. my Smith & Wesson Model 29, .44 Remington Magnum. I love the weight of it, pressed against my spine, like a modern sword ready to slice some muthafucka in half. Hell ya.