Michael Roman sits on the bathtub’s edge, his dark hair damp, tattoos glinting under the light as he grips himself hard. The muscles in his arms ripple with each rough stroke, his focus locked on the slow, deliberate pull of his own cock. Billy Santoro stands behind him, bearded and broad-shouldered, watching the way Roman’s fingers work. The air hums with the sound of skin against skin, the only movement the steady, unhurried rhythm of a man who knows exactly what he wants.
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