Roman Todd’s tattooed arm glistens with sweat as he licks his own forearm, fingers curled tight around his wrist, while Billie Ramos watches from the edge of the frame, his mouth open around his own digits in a slow, deliberate suck. The close-up locks onto the veins and ink, the way his tongue drags over skin still damp from effort, his grip tightening as he pulls his fingers free. The other man’s presence lingers in the tension of the shot, his breath heavy, his hands never still.
