Woody Fox presses Dorian Ferro’s bare chest with practiced fingers, the stethoscope’s cold metal resting just above his ribs while the other man lies flat, legs hooked over the table’s edge. The tattooed arms flex as Fox guides Ferro’s knees wide, his grip firm on the raised thighs, checking every inch with the precision of a real exam, only deeper. The dark-haired man’s breath hitches as Fox’s fingers trace the curve of his shoulder, then slip lower, tracing the edge of what’s next.
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