Montana Jordan Shirtless Novels & Stories

And in return, she shouted again, “Green shirt?! Why do you need a green shirt?!” Rubbing his ears, Jordan looked up to glare at her but she only regarded him with an eye roll before speaking at a normal decibel. “Is there a colour theme or something?” her eyes widened and she suddenly began shouting again, “Why didn't you tell me?! I'm not putting on anything green!” Frantically, she looked down at her black and white checkered dress.

He made to wear his shirt back but Ysabelle stopped him “That’s why I don’t open my body in public. I don’t shoot scenes that have to make me show my back. He didn’t touch my front though.” “He?” Ysabelle asked again hoping he would complete his word, she could denote on her own but she wanted his full confession. She had put on her phone recorder as soon as he started talking. Her answer to that was Jordan taking off his trousers. Ysabelle tried to stop him but he already took it off by the time she got to his side, his action swift, he only wore his briefs now.

I finished the two hours show around 5 am Italy time to compliment 11 pm in NYC. I checked on King Lee and found him fast asleep on the center rug. Feeling certain everyone would have gone to sleep, I didn't bother waking anyone up with calls and just walked down to the indoor pool for a swim but what I didn't expect was to see a vivid image of Jordan shirtless and in the pool with water cascading down his huge chest and down his torso. His sex line was deep as he emerged from the depth. I was reliving everything and this time it was no dream.

“What man wears pink?” “A man whose girlfriend buys it for him. Or is sponsored.” I get up and lean against the closet door. It’s big enough to fit a small car. Backlit shelves, cedar panels, mirrors that make everything look ten percent more expensive. Rows of jeans folded with geometric precision. Racks of button-ups, hoodies, jackets, all of them sharp-lined and brand-labeled. Most are Calvin Klein. His backer. Also mine. Jackson is into comfort, not branding. He wears Mack Weldon’s AIRKNITx and Bauer — not by sponsorship, by choice. He’s not big on freebies that come with legislations.

Monte! * * * * Breanna smiled. “You know, even though the flowers are very beautiful, they are no substitute for your face. In fact, you could get into many fights with flowers doubling for your face.” Monte laughed and moved the flowers away. She bit her lip, wanting to comment on his attire. He wore a pair of green khaki walking shorts, a gray shirt, and black flip-flops. Then again, she was sure she looked funny in her baseball jersey with Chicago Bullets printed in big letters across the front, and the number 16 and Cade’s name across the back.

With a towel around my waist, I rub a hand towel through my wet hair, stepping from the bathroom. Montana stands at the large windows, her forehead pressed to the glass and the desert sun’s rays enveloping her. She’s still wearing the “I’m the Groom” shirt, her legs, golden tan, spilling from its back hem mid-thigh. I need my cell phone. I want a photo to remind me of this moment forever. Unaware I’m watching her across the room, she presses her arms to the window over her head. I stifle the moan in my chest as the hem rises several inches, revealing a peek of the lower portion of her bare ass. As if her toned legs didn’t do it for me, her exquisite backside assures me every inch of her is m

He tightened his grip on my waist, his voice booming with that Alpha authority that usually made people tremble. "First of all," Jordan said when the reporter didn't respond to his question, looking that reporter dead in the eye, "I don’t have a mistress. I have one wife, a beautiful wife, and she’s standing right here." He gestured to me, his face a mask of iron. "And as for her outfit? No other woman can replicate this. It’s custom-made, one of one. There is no 'same outfit.'" But the media is like a pack of hungry wolves. They didn't care about his romantic defense.

He noticed my glare and shrugged. "I didn't have time to button my shirt." he shrugged and stepped on the gas. My eyes lingered a moment longer before I finally willed myself to look away. But I couldn't erase the sight of an inked hawk stretched on his rippled chest, its claws spreading downwards to the V that disappeared into the waist of his pants. It was etched front and center of my mind. I swallowed. "Where's Jordan? You left with him...." his voice pulled me from my dangerous musings of Dante's abs, and dropped me to the bitter reality.

“You name it.” Kent and Wiley sit back down, stretching out and watching expectantly while Jordan takes his time sauntering towards me. Both his brothers are visions of glorious nakedness, works of art that would make Michelangelo’s David throw in the towel. Jordan, naked to my hungry gaze and visibly aroused, comes nearer without me having to give a come-hither glance.

he explained, staring down at me with a soft smile etched on his face. “Oh yeah, right,” I groaned, pulling myself off the couch. Sluggishly, I made my way to the bathroom, to take a quick soak. I didn’t even bother to wash my hair. I only strengthen it. I slipped into some baggy jeans, paired with a black unisex softstyle t-shirt that says “BE THE KINKY VERSION OF YOU” and my limited edition Jordans. Julian wore a white, fitting T-shirt and some gray sweatpants with it, and I couldn’t help but stare. He always looked so good without any effort whatsoever.