Rugged Gentleman Novels & Stories

I pick up my phone and pull up the email again. Three profiles. Three men. Three masks. The Gentleman. A half-mask, oni style. Elegant. Sharp. His photo shows a man with a jawline carved from patience, salt just beginning to thread through dark hair at his temples. A suit tailored like second skin. He looks like control. He smells like rules you want to break. His list: bondage, anal play, slow torture of the best kind. He likes precision over chaos. “I enjoy unwrapping a woman like a gift. Slowly. Thoroughly. I want to hear you thank me for every second of restraint.”

They followed the trail of blood until their eyes rested on us, and they slightly lowered their guns. An older gentleman pushed past everyone and considered me with interest. He had the golden owl pin on his black two-piece suit, but it was slightly different—it had a crown of antlers on the owl’s head, and the pin was bigger. I almost wanted to laugh because he accurately looked like a mafia boss—minus the mafia. He had white hair slicked back, a perfectly trimmed moustache and eyebrows, and shoes so polished they looked like mirrors. For a moment, I thought he would say, in his best Don Corleone voice, “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

Every time it was like this . Could it be anything harder than losing the last person who really cared about you? The only family you ever had ... when you were meant to not have no family ... … “Hello,” an elegantly dressed gentleman, wearing a long black coat to his knees over an expensive suit, with lacquered leather shoes, as only a lord could wear greeted respectfully. The gentleman just entered a small office. Under the stylish hat, one could see how his hair, which had once been completely golden, began to get the hue of silver. His movements were so skilful that he seemed to be trained at the Queen's most famous school of courtesans.

Aaron then turned to Alessandro and said, “Hi, old man. I like your look although you look like a bad guy from the movies.” Aaron’s words had almost everyone in the house gasp audibly. Adrian spoke, “I am really sorry about it. He has been pampered a lot.” Alessandro gave a reassuring smile to Adrian, “That is all okay.” He then turned to Aaron, “Hi, young man. By the way, I am a bad guy. I am the Don.” “Oh really. Would you like to play a game with me?” Aaron bet while showing off the gun in his hand.

Callum glanced back to the big hall. People were dancing, perfectly moving in circlers "I have a problem steering away from the furniture, I thought you've noticed by now. And I'm afraid I'm already dizzy enough." He smiled at his glass. Oliver moved closer and said "And the hair?" "Oh, my previous longer hair destroys the shape of the physiognomy and it's vulgar, my dear valet." "If I knew what that means, I'd agree with you. " Callum snorted. He was resting one of his hands on the rail and Oliver put his hand next to his. White gloves were a compulsory part of the gentleman's wear for a ball, but Oliver's was bare. He wasn't a gentleman, after all.

Paul immediately fixed me a Martini and left us alone at the bar before I could thank him. "Is this how you pick up women? By pretending to be a gentleman?" I asked, eyeing the Martini. "What's wrong with being a gentleman?" He asked as he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey, his rugged, strong hand moved with a confident grace, exuding a sense of raw masculinity and irresistible sex appeal. I wondered how his rough hands would feel against my skin. I grabbed the glass from his grasp and took a swig of the amber liquid, a tantalizing warmth washed over my tongue. The fiery burn lingered in my throat.

Both men comply. The first one is older—broad-shouldered and solid, with more grey than brown in his hair. His beard is neatly trimmed, but there’s something rugged about him that grooming can’t polish away. He wears a faded, greyish shirt that clings to a powerful frame, the sleeves rolled up to reveal two thick, jagged scars—one running down each arm from under the sleeve to just above the elbow. They’re not clean slashes. Whatever tore into him left behind something ragged and cruel.

I remember how his roughened face feels between my legs and I fan myself with a pamphlet and coo about the fire. I am most pious, donate heavily and come away feeling hollow. As a point of interest, I have noticed Fitz prefers to be gentlemanly, to be clean shaven and smart. I adore the roughness of his caresses when laced with a gritty brush of his cheek. At no point has his current social status been a source of tension. I know he is a gentleman in waiting. Hay, labour and leather braced pants are merely the starting point for him.

Standing tall at 6'4", his broad shoulders and muscular build hinted at the formidable strength that lay beneath his calm exterior. His chiseled features were framed by short, dark hair, often tousled as if he had just returned from a midnight run through the woods. Ryder's piercing blue eyes, reminiscent of a clear, icy winter sky, held a depth of emotion and secrets that few could fathom, making his expression perpetually unreadable. His presence commanded attention and respect, a testament to his position as the alpha of Ravenwood. He dressed in a rugged yet refined style, favoring dark, fitted clothing that emphasized his physique and allowed for swift movement. Ryder's strong jawline wa