Pierce Paris sits on the couch with his legs spread wide, fingers tracing slow circles over his bare chest while Braxton Hill watches from behind, his beard shadowed over a smirk as he leans back into the cushions. The white towel clutches his lap, half-tucked away as his thumb brushes the head of his cock, the lean muscles of his thighs flexing under the weight of the moment. His hand lingers near his mouth, then drops to his crotch again, the couch’s neutral fabric muted against the focus of his touch.
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