HennessyTheAuthor

In a dangerous world where warlords rule, monsters roam, and treachery lurks behind every corner, there exists a mercenary known only as Dude.

No title, no fancy lineage—just Dude.

Women whisper his name in hushed tones. Men either want to hire him or kill him. He’s a walking contradiction—deadly, yet lazy; cocky, yet irresistibly charming; a warrior with the strength of ten men but a habit of forgetting his own plans mid-fight. He never says no to coin, danger, or a damsel in distress. And somehow, no matter how insane the odds, he always pulls through with a smirk on his lips and a blade in his hand.

But it’s not just his swordplay that’s legendary.

After the dust settles, the women he saves find themselves drawn to him—whether it’s the thrill of survival, the heat of the moment, or just the way his rough hands feel against their skin. And when they give in to the tension, the passion that follows is nothing short of earth-shattering.

Tales Of A Swordsman

The first time I met Dude, he challenged me to a duel. Right in the middle of the city's oldest courtyard, between the flower stalls and a very confused street bard.

To be fair, I had just insulted his boots.

"You're standing on sacred dueling ground," I said, arms crossed. "And those look like they were stitched by a drunken goat."

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Careful, Duchess. You mock the boots, you get the man."

"Perfect. I need target practice."

He bowed—flamboyant and unbothered—and drew his sword with theatrical flair. "Then by all means, take your shot."

We fought beneath the bell tower, watched by fruit vendors and gasping noblewomen.

I expected brute force. What I got was something far more dangerous: a dancer with a blade, grinning like he had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

He parried my best feint. I swept his legs. He recovered mid-fall, rolled to his feet, and winked.

I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kiss him.

He disarmed me—barely. I kicked him in the shin. He laughed even as he limped.

I rolled my eyes. "Buy better boots."

We drank together that night, the duel forgotten. Almost.

"One night. No names. No promises."

I countered. "Three nights. My rules. No falling in love."

He raised his glass. "That sounds like a challenge."

He toasted me with a grin that promised bad decisions.

He moved like he fought—reckless and refined. One minute teasing, the next worshipping every inch of me with hands that knew exactly how to ruin.

He stripped me with slow reverence. I tore his shirt open with my teeth.

We tangled in sheets, in shadows, in front of the fireplace, against the armory wall. His moans were low and reverent. Mine were louder.

We sparred by day, bruised by love. We fell apart by candlelight.

He kissed like he was dying. I let him.

He left on the fourth morning. Of course he did. No words, no goodbye. Just the scent of leather and the echo of my name in the hollow space of my bed.

But he left a note—scribbled hastily on the back of a dueling glove:

I wear that glove on my belt now. Not for sentiment. Just in case he ever comes back to reclaim it.

This time, I won't let him walk away with just my heart.

You Really Want To Fight Dude?