James Jones presses his fingers into his own tight hole, the muscles flexing as he leans against the bar, his clean-shaven jaw tight with focus. The stool creaks under his weight when he shifts, arms stretched behind his head to pull his ass higher off the seat, the light skin of his muscular back glistening. His short hair doesn’t move as he tilts forward, fingers digging deeper, the shelves in the background silent witnesses to the way he holds himself, controlled, deliberate, every pose a study in restraint.
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