Masculine Beauty Quotes

“The menopause of Sarah became her menostart; this is feminine beauty! The death plot against Mordecai became his life spring; this is masculine beauty! A kind of life lived in God's word is a life of miraculous beauty!”
― Israelmore Ayivor

“In that moment, he looks like a da Vinci portrait; his plump, white face, his soft-looking ginger hair, his gentle-looking eyes. In da Vinci's portraits of people pointing to heaven, his models, no matter their age, always look almost cherub-like. Ben stays pointing for a while, and then the illusion is broken.
"Yeah, thanks," I say.
Ben grins, and his eyes turn into little slits with crow's-feet on either side that haven't yet become permanent folds in his face; I can tell they will, though. Over several years, Ben's skin will form wrinkles that will act like physical reminders of his personality and nature. Meanwhile, I'll remain looking the same; my face will give no clue to the kind of person I am. "That man looks kind," people will say when they see Ben's face when he is old. When the same people see me, they'll say nothing.”
― Claire Kohda, Woman, Eating

“Despite his size and broad-shouldered build, there was a feline quality about him... he was like a lazy but potentially deadly tiger.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Devil in Winter

“The King of Hell was everything they said he was, both less and more. He was reputed to have the ability to seduce an abbess or the pope himself, and she could see why. It wasn't his physical beauty, which was considerable. He had dark blue eyes behind a fringe of ridiculously long lashes, pale, beautiful skin, the kind of mouth that could bring despair and delight- and what the hell was she doing, thinking about such things?
He looked younger than his reputed age, around forty, and while his long dark hair was streaked with silver it only made him seem more leonine, more dangerous. He was tall, and he moved with an elegant grace that put dancers to shame. He was standing far too close to her, to the gun she'd stolen from Jacobs while he was busy with the carriage, and he was looking at her with far too much interest and absolutely no fear.”
― Anne Stuart, Ruthless

“It was hard to believe that Flynn was the same species or gender as the Stabbingtons: he was smaller, lithe, muscled but slim. Few to no scars-- or at least, only really fetching ones that accentuated his features. His face was built for all kinds of smiles; even cocky ones like the grin he sported right now.
His nose was not at all like in the posters.
Rapunzel felt a warmth wash over her and had to stop herself from staring.”
― Liz Braswell, What Once Was Mine

“Somebody had piled blankets over my shoulders. That was my first hazy thought as I awoke. Heavy, warm blankets. Something tickled my neck and I twitched.
The blankets twitched back.
My eyes snapped open. In one moment I realized that what tickled my neck was a tuft of black hair, the blankets were a warm body, and the Gentle Lord was draped over me like a lazy cat, his head resting on my shoulder.
He raised his face and smiled. The stories were right that called him "the sweet-faced calamity," for he had one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen: sharp nose and high cheekbones framed with tousled, ink-black hair and stamped all over with the arrogant softness of a man just out of boyhood who had never been defied. He wore a long dark coat with an immaculate white cravat tied at his neck and white lace foaming at his cuffs. If he had been human, I might have taken him for a gentleman.
But his eyes had crimson irises with cat-slit pupils.
My heart was trying to pound its way out of my chest. I'd spent my whole life preparing for this moment, and I couldn't speak or even move.
"Good afternoon," he said. His voice was like cream, light but rich.
I pushed myself off the ground and sat up. He sat up too, with languid grace.
"What," I managed to choke out.
"You were asleep," he said. "I got so bored waiting that I fell asleep too. And now here you are." He tilted his head. "You were a good pillow but I think I prefer you awake. What's your name, lovely wife?”
― Rosamund Hodge, Cruel Beauty

“I felt a pulse of fear at the same moment that his eyes narrowed. Then one of his hands landed on the pillar beside me as he leaned in.
"Nyx Triskelion," he said lowly.
My breath stopped.
He was a monster. Not even close to human. But I wasn't looking at his cat-slit eyes or mocking smile. I was staring at the lines of his shoulder, lazy but strong even under his clothes; the pale skin of his throat, exposed where several of his coat's gold clasps had come undone; the curve of his jaw that would be warm against my lips. For one moment, I felt like a river running down to his ocean.”
― Rosamund Hodge, Cruel Beauty

“Everything about Tom is polished; he has a metrosexual, masculine beauty.”
― Heather Dark, excerpt from The Designer Wife

“Everything about Tom is polished; he has a metrosexual, masculine beauty.”
― Heather Dark, The Designer Wife

“In walked a vision of elegance that might have just stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel. She didn't even bother trying not to stare. Peach Gallagher had arrived. And all her expectations exploded.
Not only did he appear to understand the meaning of black tie, he walked into the reception room as if he had invented the look---a perfectly fitted tuxedo jacket and matching trousers, a shirt with studs and cuff links, an expertly tied bow tie, and black laced oxfords. His long hair managed to make the attire seem more formal.
He was every crush she'd ever had from junior high onward. Every album cover she'd stared at, listening to torch songs until she cried. Every mooned-over heartthrob she could never have.”
― Susan Wiggs, The Lost and Found Bookshop

“If he was a car he'd be a Lamborghini Huracán Evo," Zara mused. "Pure combustive drama, traffic-stopping looks, and a wild, unfettered soul hidden beneath sensational styling." Zara loved sports cars, not only for their mouthwatering designs but also for the speeds that could take her breath away. "I think he has hidden depths. If he wasn't so grumpy, he'd be intriguing.”
― Sara Desai, The Singles Table

“She bent down to smell a red rose when a deep male voice interrupted her, causing her heart to leap into her throat.
"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
Ay, Dios mio. Her pulse ratcheted back down. Did he really just quote Romeo and Juliet? What a player. She looked up.
Whoa---sexy dead mariachi alert! Was she dreaming? Her heart stuttered.
A tall man with a strong jawline and twinkling dark eyes framed by impossibly long eyelashes stood before her. He was definitely handsome, even though his face was obscured by makeup. His charro suit seemed painted on his muscular body.
He winked at her, which caused her to grin unabashedly.
The shiny silver buttons on the sides of his tight black pants outlined his legs. She couldn't help but stare at his strong thighs... and that huge bulge in his pants.
Breathe, Julieta, breathe.”
― Alana Quintana Albertson, Ramón and Julieta

“Such a virile, vital person, he was so different from the diverse gentlemen of her acquaintance who were watered-down versions of the male animal.
He exhibited none of the fluff or posturing, none of the pretension or swaggering, that the others practiced ad nauseam, but then, he didn't need to preen or pose. With that invincible combination of attitude, demeanor, and temperament, rivals could only jealously envy him. And he was so bloody good-looking. An amazing body, coupled with a comely face and those mesmerizing sapphire eyes, ensured that he cut a swath wherever he went. Heads turned, women coveted, men begrudged. It almost wasn't fair to the members of his sex that he possessed so much, while the rest of them had been graced with so little.”
― Cheryl Holt, Total Surrender

“She stared after him, her eyes widening when his plaid suddenly dropped to pool around his feet. He then tugged his shirt off over his head, bent to grab up the heavy plaid and strode into the water carrying both.
Claray knew she should turn away, but couldn't seem to manage that as her eyes slid over his wide, muscular back and then down to the round curves of his derriere. They stopped there briefly before moving on to his strong thighs, and shapely calves. Claray had never thought she would call a man beautiful, but Conall was, and she found herself fascinated by the play of muscles in his back, buttocks and legs as he moved.”
― Lynsay Sands, Highland Wolf

“Her gaze traveled over his beautiful back, that glorious expanse of smooth skin she had caressed so eagerly last night--- to her shame.
She wished she couldn't remember at all, for what could be worse than to desire a man who meant one's destruction?
Yet she could not deny her awe at his leonine beauty, all dangerous power, his massive, sculpted size balanced by effortless male grace. Her wistful stare followed the sweeping line of his lean sides and stone-carved arms as he warmed his hands beneath the hearth fire.
Between his broad shoulder blades, his sable hair hung in a thick, glossy queue. Kate watched a droplet of rain run off his wet hair and roll down his back.
As he rubbed his hands together, she was riveted by the complex play of chiseled muscle that flowed through his upper body with the simple motion. She was especially entranced by his fortresslike shoulders and those incredible arms, whose raw strength had saved her life. She looked away, feeling a bit faint. Never in all her days had she seen a physique like that on a man.”
― Gaelen Foley, My Dangerous Duke

“Rohan was battling invisible foes, wielding the large, lancelike weapon she had seen in his hand that first night in the great hall. His long hair flowed around his shoulders, wetted with the sweat that streamed from him and made his body gleam with rippling, raw power. He was bare-chested, wearing only loose black trousers that draped his compact buttocks and muscled thighs gracefully.
His bare feet were silent on the flagstones as he lunged, leaped, and spun about, the torchlight flashing crimson on his long, wicked blade.
Kate watched, riveted by the play of shadows and gold torchlight that slid over his sweat-slicked body, gliding across the sleekly muscled contours of his back and massive shoulders, his powerful chest and chiseled abdomen as he thrust, swung, jabbed, then spiraled up to parry an imaginary blow, only to gouge again with precision perfectly balanced with killing force.
His blade sliced through the air with naught but a deadly whisper, each slashing arc of his weapon, like his honed body, under his exquisite control.
In constant motion, he wove through the changing patterns of his regime with a beautiful---an almost otherworldly---prowess, a creature of elegant savagery.
He attacked again with a low war cry, but then suddenly went motionless, standing in a sure-footed stance below her, his chest heaving.
Slowly, he looked up, as though he had felt her there.
Kate found herself looking into the eyes of a predator; she held absolutely still.”
― Gaelen Foley, My Dangerous Duke

“His torso was a perfect "V" of golden skin and muscle; his slim hips, whiter than the rest of him, tapered to thighs and calves that could have been turned on a lathe, and these were dusted all over with fair hair that glinted in the low sunlight. The hair on his head was cropped short and beacon-bright, but the features of his face were nearly indistinct from where she watched. Given the glory of the rest of him, they scarcely seemed to matter. The man's beauty was, in fact, an assault, and a peculiar tangle of shock and delight and yearning began to beat inside her like a secret, second heart.
And then the man stretched his arms upward, arching his back indolently; exposing the dark fluffs under his arms, and this, somehow, seemed more erotic and intimate than the rest of his naked body combined. Susannah had seen paintings and statues of naked men, for heaven's sake, but none of them had ever sported fluffy hair beneath their arms. In fact, the sheer easiness with which this man wore all his raw beauty frightened her a little. He was like someone too casually wielding a weapon.
She fumbled her sketchbook open.
Quickly, roughly, she sketched him: the upraised arms, the curves of his biceps and legs and the planes of his chest, and when he turned, the darker hair that curled between his legs and narrowed up to a frayed silvery-blond line over his flat stomach. Nestled right between his legs were, of course, his... male parts...which looked entirely benign at the moment, really, at least from this distance. She sketched those, too, as she intended to be thorough, hardly thinking of them as anything other than part of her drawing.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“Your drawings are brilliant, Miss Makepeace. You're quite talented."
"My drawings are brilliant?" What about my smile? What about my eyes?
"Yes," he said. "Detailed, accurate, yet still singular and strangely..." he looked upward for a moment, seeking a clean slate for his thought, then returned his eyes to her. "... passionate."
He all but purred that last word, his eyes dancing with mirth, and for the life of her, she didn't know what to say. Susannah studied him warily instead, since his face was the one part of his body she hadn't yet sketched in vivid detail. His features were too strong, perhaps, to be considered classically handsome; his face was a bit too long and angular, like a diamond, his nose slightly arched. Light brows, light lashes, and those disconcerting eyes. But in the midst of all those angles, his mouth was a work of art; wide, sensitively curved, indisputably masculine.
And of course, the rest of him was beautifully made, too.
Almost overwhelmingly so.
God help her, she could feel color setting fresh fire to her cheeks at the memory.”
― Julie Anne Long, Bluebird Notebook Journal Blue Bird for Kids Teens Women School 8.5 x 11 College Ruled | Really Cute Notebooks

“Her silence didn't seem to bother him. "Your drawings are brilliant, Miss Makepeace. You're quite talented."
"My drawings are brilliant?" What about my smile? What about my eyes?
"Yes," he said. "Detailed, accurate, yet still singular and strangely..." he looked upward for a moment, seeking a clean slate for his thought, then returned his eyes to her. "... passionate."
He all but purred that last word, his eyes dancing with mirth, and for the life of her, she didn't know what to say. Susannah studied him warily instead, since his face was the one part of his body she hadn't yet sketched in vivid detail. His features were too strong, perhaps, to be considered classically handsome; his face was a bit too long and angular, like a diamond, his nose slightly arched. Light brows, light lashes, and those disconcerting eyes. But in the midst of all those angles, his mouth was a work of art; wide, sensitively curved, indisputably masculine.
And of course, the rest of him was beautifully made, too.
Almost overwhelmingly so.
God help her, she could feel color setting fresh fire to her cheeks at the memory.”
― Julie Anne Long, Beauty and the Spy

“He made an immediate impression, biker tough. The men admired him. A sexual rush made women blush. He was a turn-on. There was a wildness to Jake that unsettled the ladies. A roughness that dared them to domesticate him.
Other guys were equally tall, broad shouldered, and muscled. It was Jake's face that set him apart. Angular and strong boned. Alpha and masculine. His sharp gaze undressed and penetrated a woman's deepest thoughts. His cheekbones slashed to a single dimple, unshaved jaw. Wicked grin. His mouth promised midnight arousal and morning satisfaction.”
― Kate Angell, The Café Between Pumpkin and Pie

“This man had been hiding an actual, honest-to-god six-pack beneath his perfect-fitting clothes. His broad chest tapered down to a narrow waist, the way he wore his shorts making him look like he was a goddamn underwear model instead of a doctor or CEO or whatever the hell he was.
Frederick wasn't just attractive, I realized.
He was a Greek god.”
― Jenna Levine, My Roommate Is a Vampire

“Frederick looked great in the parade of old-fashioned suits I'd seen in since we'd met, of course. More than great. But I realized now that his consistently too-formal, out-of-date attire served as a constant reminder to me that Frederick was out of my league in every imaginable way--- and completely off-limits.
Untouchable. And other.
Now, though...
"What do you think?" he asked. "Do I look like I fit in with modern society now?"
With difficulty, I tore my eyes from the broad expanse of his chest now covered in a forest-green Henley that fit him like a glove and met his gaze. He was fidgeting a little as I looked back at him, drumming his fingertips against his upper thigh again, looking at me with a nervous intensity that stole the breath from my lungs.
I let my eyes trail slowly down his body, drinking him in, taking in his new shirt and the dark blue jeans that fit him so well you wouldn't have guessed he'd had no idea what size he was twenty minutes ago. The other jeans he'd tried on lay folded in a pile on the chair beside him; his suit hung neatly on a hanger in the dressing room.
I focused on these other details to distract myself from how Frederick not only looked just as hot in more casual clothes as he did in his stuffy suits, but also how he now looked attainable in a way that was dangerous to me, specifically.
I had to avert my eyes. Looking right at him felt a little too much like looking directly at the sun.
"You look great. You look unbelievable, actually." I heard his sharp intake of breath, only then realizing that that hadn't quite been what he'd asked me. All he'd asked was whether he looked like he fit in. My stomach swooped, my face suddenly feeling like it was on fire. Idiot. "That is... that is to say---"
"You think I look great?" He was looking at me with an expression that felt somewhere between surprise and pleasure. He stepped from the dressing room, stopping when he was only a few inches away from me. I took an involuntary breath, breathing in the scent of lavender soap and new clothes that clung to him.”
― Jenna Levine, My Roommate Is a Vampire

“Do I get to look at you properly now?" I asked, turning. "Or is this going to be a case of 'If you see my face, I'll have to kill you'?"
"I promised I wouldn't hurt you," he said. "I don't break my promises."
"I'm glad to hear---" Words failed me when I turned around. He wasn't traditionally handsome but ruggedly so, with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a wide, stubborn mouth. His eyes were dark and velvety, sprinkled with gold. Gorgeous. Just like the rest of him. Even partially hidden in the shadows, he was simply the most breathtaking man I'd ever seen.
My knees weakened and I struggled to regain my composure.
I was already dead when he smiled. I died a little more when he brushed back the longish dark hair that was a damp tangle around his chiseled face. He wore a leather jacket over broad shoulders and a gray T-shirt stretched tight across the hard, muscled chest I'd had the pleasure of leaning against for the last twenty minutes. I guessed him to be an inch or two over six feet, maybe slightly less if his battered leather boots had heels.
"Hello, beautiful."
My mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. He looked like trouble. But it was the kind of trouble that sent a delicious thrill down my spine.”
― Sara Desai, To Have and to Heist

“He undid his shirt and I stared at his tan chest, covered with a light dusting of golden hair. He reminded me of a lion, and I felt like a lioness, proud and ready. His belt was off so fast, it clunked when it hit the ground, and he stepped out of his jeans. I was almost blinded by my desire for him then. It was like the edges of my vision were blurred. I reached out to him, and he pulled me close, unhooking my bra and tossing it on the pile of tangled clothes on the grass, and then pressing me against him again. His chest was so warm against my skin that it only made me burn hotter.”
― Victoria Benton Frank, My Magnolia Summer

“He wasn't wearing a shirt. Alert, alert! August Hodges was not wearing a shirt.
Her greedy eyes inhaled the wall of delicious flesh that defined his magnificent back. Muscles rippled in perfect synchronized motions as he lifted his arm. Scrumptious, delicious brown skin her lips and tongue longed to taste. Dampness instantly settled between her legs.
She must have made a whimper full of intense hunger, or maybe he just sensed he was no longer alone--- and she was going to go with the second, less embarrassing option--- because he turned. Holy fuck! The front was better than the back. He was a professional athlete who took his fitness seriously (even though he owned a cupcake shop franchise), so she shouldn't be shocked by how fucking good he looked. But it was one thing to be intellectually aware of something and another to be confronted with it up close and personal. A quick perusal registered an eight-pack. A trail of hair bisected his abs and led to... She jerked her eyes upward.
His eyebrows lifted. "Sloane?"
His tone was amused. No doubt her tongue was hanging out her mouth like a dog eagerly tracking the bowl of water its parent carried.
Dignity. She needed to find it, and soon. She lifted a hand as he reached for the teal Sugar Blitz polo on his desk. Let a mocking, flirty smile spread across her lips. "Please stop on my behalf."
He shot her a look. "I do so appreciate being treated like a piece of meat."
The finest, rarest cut of beef. Filet mignon.”
― Jamie Wesley, A Legend in the Baking

“Macon Saint was the devil. Anyone with a lick of sense knew it. Unfortunately, when it came to Macon, none of my fellow classmates at Shermont High School seemed to possess the sense that God gave them. No, they'd all fawn over him as though her were a god. I suspected that was the true mark of the devil: turning people into starry-eyed fools when they ought to know better.
Not that I could blame them. Beauty made fools of us all. Macon had the face of an angel--- so beautiful you wondered if it truly had been sculpted by the hand of God, black hair so thick and glossy it might well have had a halo floating over it.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“Those eyes, deep set and carob brown under black brows that are straight, angry slashes. When he was a kid, those eyes somehow managed to appear angelic and sweet with their long curling lashes and shining depths. Now he resembles an Old Testament archangel, all fierce judgement and wrath--- the type who smites wrongdoers with one look.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“The chair beneath him creaks as he shifts his considerable weight. Not that he's hefty; the man is pure muscle and decidedly bigger than he was in high school. At seventeen, Macon had the physique of a model, lean and lithe. He's still lean, but now he looks like he could play tight end in the NFL. I wonder idly if he built his body up to fit his character, Arasmus, the sword-wielding Warrior King.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“Damn that man. Damn his six-foot-two canvas of tightly packed muscle and unfairly gorgeous obsidian eyes. Damn him for not staying in the mold of ex-enemy and current employer but insisting on blurring the lines and upending my nicely ordered world.
God, I nearly moaned when he wiped his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, revealing the hard slab of his lower abs. Lord, but he's beautiful, nicely defined but big and strong. A fighter's body. My mouth went dry at the sight of the V and those glorious abs, swooping down and disappearing behind the low line of his sweats.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy

“Macon's amused voice drifts over me. "You can relax now. I'm decent."
Decent. Ha. Nothing about the picture he makes is decent. Arms resting on the sides of the tub, bubbles frothing over his tan chest, he looks like sin. His pecs are large and prominent and lightly furred with dark hair. A bubble dangles from one of his tiny nipples, and I have the urge to touch it.
A smug smile remains in his eyes as, with a long groan, Macon relaxes against the tub. His injured leg is propped on the far side of the tub, exposing a good length of massive thigh. From beneath lowered lids, he looks at me. "Thank you for helping."
So meek. So deceptive. So damn tempting.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy