Patrick Dempsey Shirtless Novels & Stories

Powers' who was returning greetings and taking pictures with some well-wishers, flashes of camera lights going on and off. The more I stared, the more I admired the man. Apart from his looks which always found a way to awe me no matter the number of times I've seen him, his dressing on this fine day was so... so... alluring. Sexy to be precise. He was not dressed in his regular suit and shirt thing. Instead, he had on a dyed white and blue, long-sleeved t-shirt that had a little v- cut at the neck. It held onto his body so well, even his arms could not help but show off.

The undefeated. Similar feelings surged through Damien. Standing in one of the famous churches in Manhattan, St. Patrick's Church right in front of the priest, he gritted upsettingly. Dressed in inky black shade, he looked sinfully tempting like a living sculpture standing in the front positions in a boutique. Anyone and everyone who set their gaze on the alpha gasped as they wished to look at him the whole day and run their hands over his body. However, the pissed looks didn't sit well on his sexy face. He was impatiently waiting for his bride.

I turned to see who it was and my eyes came in contact with Davion who was shirtless with his abs popping out everywhere. Oh shit!

There was clear tension between us, and Damian’s obvious dislike for me made things a bit more complicated. Just as I was about to turn and leave, the door suddenly opened. My heart skipped a beat as I found myself face-to-face with Damian. He stood there shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose trousers that hung low on his hips. His skin glistened with water droplets from a recent shower, and he was in the process of drying his hair with a towel.

He was already there. Damon stood just inside the heavy curtain, his broad shoulders blocking the strobe-lit chaos behind him. He wasn’t in club clothes. He wore dark trousers and a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as if he’d come straight from something far more serious. In one hand, held loosely between his fingers like a forgotten cigarette, was the first holy Grail shard.

I paddеd out into thе kitchеn in a shirt and shorts, praying to God hе was gonе. But no. Thеrе hе was. Shirtlеss. Hair wеt from a showеr, wеaring gray swеatpants that clung way too wеll to еvеry thick, dеlicious inch of him. Hе lеanеd against thе countеr, еating cеrеal likе hе didn’t spеnd last night fucking somеonе еlsе whilе whispеring filth into my еar.

I begrudgingly sat up on the bed. “I’ll have you know Desmond that there is nothing wrong in wanting to be comfortable, not like you would understand that with how uptight you are” Desmond crossed his arms, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. He was already dressed in a navy button-down and dark jeans, looking like he belonged on the cover of GQ: Passive-Aggressive Edition. I wonder how he managed to look so put together all of the time, I mean it should be illegal to look as god as he did.

Dawn shook her head. “Let’s start with the good news.” “We have actual clothes. I found two of your shorts in here. They probably got mixed in with mine,” Maxwell said. “But the only shirts we have are these.” He pulled out one extra-large T-shirt with a print that read: [I Put the ‘Max’ in Maximum Pleasure] “And this is yours,” Maxwell said, showing a small-sized shirt that read: [I Survived the Max Attack!]

He had just one tattoo drawing, on his heart area, like a comic parody of — is that Cat Woman? And more than that, he emitted a darker aura than the other two. For the love of God, are those abs even real? They were all so fucking ripped, like those men who give hardcore BDSM fucks in those p**n videos I watch with Gilda. Oh gosh! Was this the sex suite? The one sitting seemed ripped, as his shirt fit him like a glove, stretching out his muscles, and also the one standing with a phone, he was fucking ripped. But the one dressed in black and had a shirt on his shoulder? He was fucking shredded. A buff fellow, my God!

Those hands couldn't sit still. Emerson tugged at Porsche's cloth, hinting at taking it off. When Porsche gave him a slight break from that hungry kiss, Emerson pulled the shirt off, rendering Porsche bare chested. “Take my shirt off.” Another Command Porsche wholly nodded to. While Porsche tackled one button after the other, Emerson worked on Porsche's pants. It was joggers so he only had to undo the ropes. “Damnit,” he cursed, sucking a large amount of air when he felt bare flesh beneath fleece material. He had no briefs on? Shit. Did he even have briefs at all?