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.

"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.

"That went well." I scoffed. "About as well as dealing with a hyena." I narrowed my eyes on him. "You're drenched." I point out. He looks at the large wet stain at the front of his tight dress shirt. Richmond was so well muscled, even at his age, that most of his shirts seemed to stretch over the large expanse of his chest. The white shirt was now see-through and I could make out a slight dark shade of his nipple. I gulped and tore my gaze back up to his face.

Backing off, you undo the last two of his shirt buttons and admire his bare front, every bit as delicious as you imagined. Nick helps you wiggle his shirt all the way off. “There’s no one at home to be suspicious of your wrinkled shirt,” you say, “so, fuck it!” You wad it up and throw it behind the couch. He looks shocked for a second and then smiles and goes with it. You caress his chest for a minute and then rest your hands motionless at his hips. You are apart enough and sitting up high enough that he can’t help but look at your breasts, your excited nipples pushing out noticeably from inside your shirt. You wait patiently while he studies them and runs his fingers lightly between them an

No shame. I knocked on the door. He opened it without a word. He was in jeans, barefoot, shirtless, with the muscles of his chest and arms tensed, on display, lit only by the weak light of the bedside lamp. In his right hand, a black satin strip. In his gaze, pure dominance. "Take off the robe," he ordered, his voice low and firm. Without hesitating, I undid the tie. I let the fabric slip from my shoulders, fall down my arms, until it touched the floor.

He was standing near the bar with Quinton and two of his teammates that lived here in Kingmoore Court—Ian and Anthony—a bottle of ice water in his hand. Unlike most people here who were wearing shorts, bikinis, and trunks, Zaire Gibson looked like he stepped right out of a damn fashion magazine. One thing about him—he knew how to dress himself. His drip was always top tier. His red-tipped dreads were tied behind his head , a stray one casually falling on the side of his face. I bit my lip, unable to understand how someone could be so effortlessly handsome. He was wearing a tight white tank top and a short sleeved casual blue cropped shirt. Baggy light blue jorts , white socks, and a pair of