Scott Woodman starts fully dressed, his dark hair and clean-shaven jaw sharp against the orange couch as he adjusts his clothes with deliberate slowness. The shirt peels away in stages, exposing his smooth, muscular torso and the ink that traces his skin, each pose deliberate, leaning back with arms raised, hand resting on his head, then on his thigh as he settles deeper into the fabric. By the end, he’s fully naked, staring upward, forward, or lost in the armrest, every movement a slow unraveling of restraint.
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