Nick Robinson Shirtless Novels & Stories

“Oh my God.” “In my defense, he was shirtless.” Nina stared at me. “I don’t have a second defense.”

The sight of injustice always struck something raw in me. “I don’t care if you’ve got tattoos covering every inch of your body or piercings hanging from your face like Christmas ornaments, it doesn’t give you the right to act like a goddamn beast,” I spat at the guy ready to pounce on him but Rob drew me back asking me to knock it off. I was too adamant to heed what Rob was asking of me. I squared my shoulders and stepped toward the guy leaning on Roberto’s car. His jacket hung open, revealing inked sleeves, coiling dragons and skulls in black ink that crawled all the way to his neck.

She wasn’t built for this kind of thing, not like Nick and his friends, who were comfortable and saw it as fun. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nick taking off his shirt. He was warming up, getting ready to climb into the ring. Noah’s heart sank. He was wearing a black vest underneath, his muscles flexing as he moved. His opponent was already waiting—bare-chested, his muscles bulging, dwarfing Nick in size Nick was about to climb into the ring when Noah couldn’t hold back any longer. She moved quickly toward him, her voice strained with worry. "Nick!" she called out, grabbing his arm. "Don’t do this."

Putting his plate on the counter, he held his clasped hands out in front of him, ready to be cuffed. Ronnie blinked in an effort to clear her vision and also her mind, her fright replaced with astonishment. While her heart raced, her stomach did somersaults. Hit hard by his six-pack abs and broad, muscular chest, she was speechless after viewing such a well-developed man. So, it wasn't the Kevlar vest or the uniform after all? His plush bathrobe, open in the front, revealed his curly chest hair dwindling into a happy trail that led into his silk navy boxers hanging low on his hips. She shook her head. Back to reality.

🍁🍁🍁 *Click* *Click* *Click* They were already in California for the brand launch. Infact, they were on the red carpet and were taking pictures together. Ron was wearing a velvet black colored, two piece suit, matching it with a pair of black shoes too. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck down to his chest, exposing a rock hard torso and a gold chain necklace. His dark hair curled perfectly on his head and he looked dashing as always.

Noah, his ego being too big for his own shoes to acknowledge the possibility of getting his a$$ kicked after all, just smirked at Shaylin and threw the cloth he used for polishing the blades just minutes ago over his shoulder. He wore light blue jeans and only a white cotton ribbed tank on top, his naked shoulders and huge biceps glistening under the slowly setting sun. His tattoos made a contrast to the light, looking like shadows creeping onto Noah's skin, ready to seize his arms from behind and subdue him.

The observation shed was small, windowless, and offered absolute privacy. Inside, the heat was immediate and encompassing. Suman stood still, letting Roberts close the door and secure the latch. He turned, his gaze full of the intense, focused need of a man seeking a necessary truth. “Your shirt,” Suman commanded, her voice soft but absolute. “Now. I need to see the cost of the day’s work.” Roberts instantly complied, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his field shirt. He tore it open, exposing his sweat-damp chest, the relief of shedding the corporate uniform immense. He tossed the shirt to the ground.

"We celebrated all night." Grace's lips curled into a dark, cruel smile. Nina was hiding the truth, and it suited her just fine. Less explaining to do later. Her eyes caught sight of the white shirt Nina wore, and without warning, she snatched it from her. She examined the garment, noting its high-quality fabric and elegant craftsmanship. It was just a plain white shirt, yet the refinement in its design spoke of wealth and status. At the cuff, embroidered in fine gold thread, were the initials "L.G."

"What's this?" "A robe and a towel," he says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Go put it on, and wrap the towel around your head—like you just came out of the shower. You need it for the next setup." I want to ask why, but he turns back to his camera, dismissing me. Sighing, I head to the restroom, swap my tee for the robe, and leave my shorts on. No way I’m flashing anyone today. I get the answer to the question I wanted to ask when I head back to the studio to find Levi shirtless, wearing only a thin shorts made from the same silky fabric.

What the hell was this? Huge, high-res images bloomed open across his screen. Noah. Shirtless. His damp skin practically glistening, framed in moody shadows against a steam-filled locker room. A weight bench. A gym floor. A towel slung too low across his hips. And the goddamn sock? Not on his feet. Of course not. One image had it tucked into the waistband of Noah’s boxers like some kind of playful accessory. Another had the thing dangling from Noah’s teeth as he winked straight into the lens.