Montana Jordan Shirtless Novels & Stories

He found himself wondering how some of them managed to keep their tops up with so much skin showing and so little cloth. He'd been discussing guitars with a few guys for some time when Mitchell realized that he hadn't seen Jordan for a while. Since the suite the party was in only had a few rooms, he knew she couldn't have gone too far. He excused himself from the guys and went in search of Jordan. What he found angered him more than he would ever admit. Jordan was dancing topless on a piano with a crowd of guys standing around cheering her on. She was laughing far too loudly and was unsteady on her feet. Mitchell muscled his way through the crowd of gawkers until he reached the piano.

"So if there's anyone staying away, I don't need to say who it is right?" Melanie opened her mouth to say something but was cut short as Jordan appeared out of nowhere. "Hey y'all! Let's get this t-shirts," he yelled holding a white T-shirt with 'I love Ireland' printed on it in fat red letters. Melanie rolled her eyes, mentally cursing Jordan for not allowing her give June a reply. She flipped her hair, earning a jingle from her bangles as she snatched the t-shirts from Jordan. "Who said I love Ireland?" She asked rhetorically, immediately returning the t-shirts back to Jordan.

“You have to promise not to tell Dad. Plus, I’m good at keeping secrets, I promise.” “Ok?” “Daddy got you a beautiful black sequin dress for you.” “Really? Are you sure it’s mine?" “He told me it was for you.” “What’s the occasion?” “That’s not mine to tell.” She says, zipping her mouth. “Lunch is served, girls," Jordan says, clapping. Every time he addresses me and Ray as girls, it feels weird and intimate. He’s in loose dark grey sweatpants, a white Calvin Klein shirt, and black and grey slides.

I yelled, I turned to look at them as two of my guys were adding the ice and I noticed they were still in their clothes. "Why are they still in their clothes?" I yelled as I threw a hammer in no direction. "Why?" Lunging at Jordan. "Because there is a lady among them," he said fearfully. I looked at the creatures then back to Jordan, "and so? Do you want to take her place?" I asked him hoarsely. "No!" He cried out immediately. "Then do a good job and strip them naked into that bath," I ordered. There was a lot of mumbling and protesting or begging, I don't know. I don't care. My phone rang and I just had to pick because of the caller.

they are only going to a storage house. However, he takes a shower, puts on his black pants ripped at the knees, a tight, black t-shirt, and his white jordan. He ties his hair in a messy bun, with tousled bangs and looks around. He dressed like before. Before he stopped having parents, when he was another spoiled rich boy.

AMBERLY My knuckles throbbed. Jordan deflected my jab, stepping inside my guard. He swept his thick forearm against my chest, shoving me backward. My brand-new Nike training boots skidded across the loose dirt. I hit the forest floor hard, sending a cloud of dry pine needles into the freezing morning air. "You are telegraphing," Jordan stated. Standing ten feet away, he barely breathed heavy. He wore a simple black t-shirt, his massive shoulders relaxed, his stance balanced and grounded. He looked like a statue carved from granite.

"It’s a bit hot in here." As if on cue, Maddox takes off his shirt. He's pretty ripped; I can't deny that one. The cottage is poorly ventilated, with no fans or air conditioners. I fan my face with my hands. As if that's not enough, Morien groans, wiping sweat off his forehead and removing his shirt as well. All four men are shirtless, and it’s really, really hot.

We wake up each day to walk on a thin rope called Survival, hoping it wouldn't snap. I was done with my dumbbell reps, and doing quite a number of pushups. Now I'm standing close to the far wall, arms folded, back to the fence, far enough not to be involved in whatever nonsense the others were brewing—but close enough to keep an eye on my cellmate. Just like a well decorated elephant in a circus, Jordan has his chest bare. His tanned skin milked just enough sweat he could use to wash the dirt off his hands. He stood near the weights bench, shirt off, tattoos glistening with sweat. chest rising in a calm rhythm like he was meditating, not surrounded by criminals.

A man whose family name was literally carved into the granite foundation of the very building I was sitting in right now. And then, my gaze drifted to the right side of the page, where a media gallery sat next to the article. It was a high-resolution photograph taken at a high-society charity gala in Manhattan just last month. Jordan was standing in the center of the frame, dressed in a flawless midnight-blue tuxedo, looking untouchably elegant, cold, and entirely lethal. His dark eyes were staring straight into the camera lens with that exact same heavy, unblinking intensity that had pinned me to his hotel sheets.