Steven Seagal Shirtless Novels & Stories

I assured him. “I’m here at a souvenir shop. Will that be enough?” “Hmm, you have to tell me the color of your shirt so that he can recognize you right away,” I told him. “I am shirtless and just wearing a board short and a slipper. Black cap and black sunglass.” Did he have to include the fact that he was shirtless? I took a deep breath while trying not to imagine his overall appearance at the moment, but I could sense from his voice that he was handsome.

All of us contestants had to stand side by side in a row while Alpha Zain addressed us. The man remained shirtless leaving each muscle on his ripped body and his toned six-pack on full display. It didn't take that long for the image to take me back to that night with the alpha, but the reality of our impending challenge, stubborn as it was, found its way to the forefront of my mind.

She was shocked. "Hey!" Callan chuckled and urged, "Be quick! Do you know how long you slept? Many people are waiting outside! Do you want me to go out wearing this shirt with saliva on it? I won't mind, but I can't guarantee what they will think about you when you get off my car." "Oh!" Savannah answered slowly. She unbuckled her seatbelt and took a clean spare shirt from the back seat. When she opened the car door with the shirt in her hand, Callan already took off his shirt and sat shirtless.

A shirtless Saint. His hair is not styled, it's messy and fluffy as a few strands fall onto his forehead. The black loose jogger he is wearing hangs dangerously low around his waist as it shows the V-line molded with his defined abs. Old scars are plastered across his chest, a huge scar slashed across his chest, and a few bullet wounds here and there. I am eager to trace my fingers along those scars but I hold myself back. I'm not sure how long I stayed in my room but all I know is that it's dark outside and all the main lights are off. The only light that's bleeding through the windows and into the house is the bright moonlight.

He reminds me. I open my mouth to reply but the words die in my throat as he starts to unbutton his shirt. He stands to his feet as he shrugs it off. Miles of bronzed, chiselled skin is exposed to me. I watch, transfixed as his arms flex as he stretches them above his head. He kicks off his shoes and socks. His hands move to his belt as he unravels it and tugs off his slacks. Black Calvin Klein. My eyes widen, and my mouth dries as I take in his nearly naked body. My eyes voluntarily trace the swirls of his tattoos as they wind around his body. The creeping from his shoulder to his neck looks like a seal.

I’m not kidding. Then I zoomed in on another picture and paused. His shirt looked… wrong? Like, off. I looked up and— My brain short-circuited. He was shirtless. Standing there in front of everyone, abs glistening like they’d been painted on, tattoos crawling across his chest and arm — a massive bird spreading its wings like it could fly off his skin. I forgot to breathe. And then people started screaming. Phones came up, girls pushed forward, and I was right there with them.

After about twenty minutes, we step out of the bathroom. I slip into the shirt and shorts Festar gave me. The shirt is huge, hanging just above my knees like a dress. The shorts don’t fit at all, so I toss them aside and walk out without them. Festar is by the TV with his back to me. He’s changed too. Shirtless, wearing only loose shorts that hang low on his hips. His body is ridiculous—every muscle defined and stretched tight under his tan skin. He looks like he was built to fight gods. His dark hair is tousled, like someone just dragged their fingers through it.

Had to be when you ripped everything you owned shifting. I pull on some black leggings & a tank top. I reach for my belt, a knife strapped in like an extra limb, & my boots. In the bathroom I tie back my wavy mess & ready myself for the day ahead. "love?" Seb calls a few moments later. I pop my head out of the bathroom door. He's standing there shirtless. My brain short circuits for a moment, like it does every time this 6 foot tall walking muscle was even half naked.

Sebastian POV The black silk shirt that pooled around Elliot’s boots was the final barrier to fall. He stood bare-chested in the center of the room, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps that made his ribcage lift. The skin of his chest was a deep, feverish pink, the heat from his sudden cycle radiating off him like steam from hot pavement. I looked at his body, really looked at it, without the heavy canvas and hard plastic of his Wolves gear. He was covered in old scars from stray skate blades, his shoulders wide and packed with dense hockey muscle. His pale skin was dusted with dark freckles that stood out against his flush.

My unfinished story. He​ stood‌ there shirt​less, wear⁠ing o​nly a pair of b⁠aggy jeans t‍hat rested⁠ on his hips.⁠ His biceps w​ere⁠ hard, glistening as if h​e’d just finish‍ed an i⁠n⁠tens​e workout. His‌ abs—thos​e same abs I once ran my hands across—were righ‍t t​here. R​eal.‍ Cl⁠ose. To⁠o close.