Ettore Tosi grips his own cock hard enough to leave marks, his dark hair damp with sweat as he leans into the doorway, the necklace glinting under the light. Muscles strain against his skin when he arches back, hands braced on hips or raised above his head, the couch frame biting into his shoulder as he rocks forward. Every pose is deliberate, shirtless, exposed, the way his fingers curl around his own length or rest against his chest tells you exactly what he’s doing. The shift from indoor shadows to bright outdoor light doesn’t change the focus: his grip, his breath, the way he holds himself just before he comes.
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