Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

"Let him talk, poor boy got his fragile ego hurt..." "Gentleman, I suggest you stop bothering these ladies and take your seat." The manager meddled. "Bro, let it go man... Forget it!" The man who looked like his friend came and tried to take him away. "Yeah, whatever!" He scoffed and turned around. There was a print of eagle on the back of his jacket. It looked expensive and had real leather. My anger rose, I don't want to think which animal they have killed to make that unnecessary expensive thing.

"What do you think?" Before work he always dressed perfectly. His nearsightedness wasn't bad, but he still wore gold-rim glasses that sharpened his features. Behind the thin lenses, his dark pupils looked colder than daylight. I scoffed.

“Look, you’ve become more of a healer. I felt the approach of the old man for a long time, it always appeared like a mushroom from under a stump. And that they just can’t sit at home, like my grandfather. I sighed and turned around, putting on a polite smile. Mr. Wilson stood at a distance, his hands clasped behind his back. The usual cardigan of intricate knitting, this time in cherry color, is buttoned up, a high collar of a shirt is at the throat, dark trousers are tucked into brown ugg boots. The usual walk of a gentleman over seventy is nothing suspicious.

She had plenty of experience with men on the street and from the streets, and she had the sudden thought that she’d rather take her chances with the devil she knew rather than this man staring holes through her. Dark eyes, dark hair. Really great hair. It was mussed and unruly and longish. A lock fell over his forehead and she imagined him pushing it impatiently back without care over whether it messed it up more. It hung down his collar, giving him an untamed, wild look that probably made women want to try to tame him. Tanned skin. Not the fake tan some of the metrosexual pretty boys went for. There was a ruggedness to him even as he screamed wealth and polish like Ash did. It was just a di

“You! Over there!” When we turned, I saw several men in armour spread around the gallant carriage. The carriage door slams open and a white haired gentleman with a shiny crown on his head appears. The Gentleman wore a well-embellished tunic with a gold-work thread. He also wears a stylish scarf and a mantle, on his chest was a shining rose of brooch. On top of it, he wore a surcoat

“Rum?! Since when did you like rum? Wait.. Do we even have that?” Henry, the barman, was dressed in a white tuxedo, black shirt and white cravat, his brown hair tied back to reveal a clean-shaven jaw, tanned features and laughter lines around his brown eyes. He was a burly man and one who did not look like he should work in the gentlemen’s lounge. His clothing strained against his muscles, but he was built in such a way that he could toss people out when they became a nuisance. Henry was in charge of the gentlemen’s lounge and did a good job with it.

He said and leaned back on the bed. "Ew. No. Thanks for the offer, but no. Leave, please" I said, flushing again. This man seems to know the things to say that'd get me hot and bothered. "Aw, come on. Don't deprive me of this, seeing you like this just makes me want to eat you up, but I won't do that because I'm a gentleman of course" I laughed out loud at his use of the word gentleman to describe himself. Everyone knows Nate Jones is the furthest thing from a gentleman.

Law gestures with his head the way men do to one another and I turn. Sure enough Ridge stands behind me, his arms crossed at his chest, eyes narrowed at Law. He's dressed like Bennett with dark wash jeans and a black fleece jacket. It's like the hot guy uniform in these parts. They must buy their clothes in bulk. Color wouldn't kill them, but I can't complain about the way it highlights Ridge's rough and tough image. Everything about him screams dangerous guy, but I see past it. He's more than a rough, sometimes bossy Fugitive Recovery Specialist. Below those layers he's protective, kind, and caring. A great guy to his family, dedicated to his job, and the guys he works with. Ridge is the gu

Just a simple leather jacket, hands in his pockets, a sharp familiar grin on his face. It was Ryan Rogers.

Streamers of smoke rose from its edges as I ran my hands through the strange raiment, gaze lingering on it as it gleamed blue-black in the moonlight, just like a raven's wing. Smug, he watched me study the garment in awe. I glared back, half-expecting to see a rib-cage where his robe should be. Instead, there was most definitely flesh, and well-muscled flesh at that, decked out in an outfit that would make a biker cry. Red pinstriped pants over combat boots battled to tame a Count of Monte Cristo-esque ruffled white shirt into submission. He wore a fitted leather jacket over the ensemble. The chain of a pocket-watch dangled from his breast, and a studded belt flashed silver in the moonl