Memphis Rhodes flexes his tattooed chest, the inked muscles rippling as he runs a calloused finger over the bold design, his dark hair falling forward in a way that makes the camera linger on the sharp angles of his jaw. His lips part just enough to let the tongue dart out, slow and deliberate, before he catches it between his teeth, then holds the camera’s gaze, the smirk on his face the only warning before he leans in, fingers tracing the lines of his own arm like he’s memorizing every curve. The close-up doesn’t hide the way his breath catches, the way his expression shifts from playful to something sharper, something that makes you wonder what he’d do if the lens weren’t there.
