Montana Jordan Shirtless Novels & Stories

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Jasmine in the quiet hum of the house. She moved to the window, pushing the curtains aside and froze. The house next door. Or rather, the man standing shirtless in front of it, rinsing down a black truck with a hose. Water glinted off his skin, running down the ridges of muscle along his arms and across the deep V disappearing beneath low-slung shorts. His shoulders looked like they’d been sculpted from stone, broad and perfectly cut. He ran a hand through damp hair, tilting his face up toward the sun, and for one wild second, Jasmine forgot how to breathe.

But that wasn’t what had me stopping. It was him. His well-tanned skin glowed under the rare light of the sun, amplifying the dark ink snaking through half of his chest and one arm. One well-sculpted arm. I had never seen Jordan play, but I knew he had to have ripped muscles underneath the shirts he wore. I just had no idea how ripped they were. And now, seeing him in front of me, all oblivious, munching on that toast like it was the most interesting thing in the world…