Luke Cassidy leans against the wall, his clean-shaven jaw tight as he works his hand down his chest to grip his own cock through the teal sleeveless shirt, the wooden workshop behind him rough under his fingers. He strips the shirt off, letting it pool at his feet, then runs his palm over his abs before cupping his balls, his short dark hair catching the light as he shifts his weight. His fingers trace his own skin, hips, waist, the curve of his ass, each touch deliberate, the workshop’s grainy texture forgotten as he focuses on the way his body moves.
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