Jack Wolfe Shirtless Novels & Stories

Elias asked, narrowing his eyes at me. "It's fine, I've been through worst." He threw me a shirt, wearing the short and a light vest. " Take off your clothes, that's an order. I'm not going to carry a sick wolf with me down the mountain." I swallowed and nodded, going to a corner to remove my clothes and wrench the water out. I also had no choice but to remove my underwear because it was getting uncomfortable and itchy. I spread my clothes near the fire so it could dry faster and stood awkwardly, feeling exposed.

“I want you!” “But your wolf---!” “He wants you,” he cut me off--- and suddenly stood taking off his jacket. “Want me to prove it to you?” Before I could reply, he had pulled off his shirt, and--- I gaped! And yes, openly ogled him! He looked like a Greek god, sculpted by Michelangelo himself! His defined abs and chiseled chest looked to be cut from marble. Celtic knots and Norwich runes covered most of his right pectoral, shoulder, and upper arm. Black and gleaming against his tanned skin.

Here, the air smelled of salt, wild beach roses, and clean, unadulterated freedom. Adrian Wolfe stood at the edge of the wrap-around wooden deck, looking out over the endless expanse of gray-blue water. The Brioni suit, the silk tie, and the heavy old-money armor of the Chief Executive had been completely discarded. He wore nothing but a loose, oversized cream linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of dark casual trousers. His long, midnight-black hair was slightly windblown, his usually rigid, aristocratic face completely relaxed in the soft afternoon light.

he asked me and I stopped laughing. “You’re serious. Josh, that shit’s not possible. People that are wolves? Those are only real in movies and comic books,” I said to him and he looked at me. “Shit, now I gotta show you,” he said and started pacing up and down. “Show me what?” I asked him. I didn’t know what to make of the whole situation. I was dreaming. I was completely dreaming or high. Josh moved the other couch away from where he was standing and took his shirt off. He started taking his boxers off and my eyes widened.

None of them had knelt on the rug in his Red Room, tied up and blindfolded, mistaking domination for curiosity. My sneakers squeaked against the tile. I should’ve worn something sexier, maybe something black and backless like the girls Sloan Maddox hung out with. But my brain short-circuited trying to dress for a man who had seen me on my knees. So I wore denim and a hoodie. The opposite of submissive. When I reached his office door, it was already open. "Close it behind you," Wolfe said without looking up. He was sitting behind the same dark oak desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, pen in hand.

That the boy kissing me had a wolf living inside him that wanted to claim me in ways I didn't fully understand. But all I felt was rightness. Like every piece of me that had been scattered was finally clicking into place. My hands found the hem of his shirt. I tugged upward, and he pulled back just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere behind him. Holy hell. I'd known Kyle was athletic. Had seen the way he moved, all controlled strength and power. But seeing him shirtless was different. Feeling the hard planes of muscle under my palms was different.

It was the first time I’d ever seen him smile, and something in my chest fluttered. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and it made it hard not to stare. His muscles were well-defined, like every part of him had been carved from stone. The sun caught the sheen of sweat on his skin, and I could see the scars across his back and arms—evidence of the battles he had fought. He only wore a pair of faded jeans that hung low on his hips. I knew I should look away, but I didn’t. Back in River Moon Pack, nudity was normal. When wolves shifted, their clothes ripped apart, so walking around shirtless—or even naked—wasn’t a big deal. I’d seen it all before. Dozens of times. But for some reason, seeing Alpha Liam

The place was busy, crowded with students and freelancers and the kind of people who treated caffeine as a survival mechanism. Raven Wolfe stood in line, her coat collar turned up against the cold, her hair loose around her shoulders. She had not slept well. She had been thinking about him again, about his gray eyes and the way he had looked at her across the table, and she was angry at herself for it. She did not have time for this. She did not have space in her life for a man she barely knew. She ordered a black coffee, extra strong, and stepped to the side to wait.

I slam the dorm room door shut behind me and toss my cleaning bag to the floor like it burned me. Damien Wolfe is the devil. A very fine, very rich, tattooed devil… but still. The devil. I flop face-first onto my bed and groan into my pillow. My thighs are still trembling—and not from exhaustion. I hate that a single touch from him turns me into this… mess. This overheated, overstimulated, overthinking mess. And the worst part?

Do not remember what his fingers looked like on that book tour panel when he sipped water and smirked like he knew you were staring— The silence stretched. “Cold?” he asked. I realized I was shivering. “No.” “Liar.” He grabbed a thick flannel from the closet and tossed it at me. It smelled like cedar and firewood. “Don’t make it weird,” he muttered. “You’ll freeze.” “I’d rather freeze than wear your scent like some literary groupie.” “Fine.” He tugged it back, then peeled off his shirt. My brain short-circuited. Because Jax Hart was cut like a sex scene that never made it past editorial. Broad shoulders. Sharp V-lines. Light trail of hair disappearing under jeans I now absolutely noticed.