Skot Falcon sits on the bed, his dark hair framing a lean, smooth body as his hand drifts near his groin, fingers tracing the taut skin of his thigh before slipping closer. The tattoo on his lower back peeks through as he leans forward, adjusting himself with deliberate precision, his movements and unfiltered. Every shift of his weight pulls his attention back to the spot between his legs, where his hand lingers just out of reach, until it doesn’t.
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