James Jones stretches across the bed, his muscular frame taut as he arches his back, fingers tracing slow circles over his own skin while the patterned sheets ripple beneath him. The clean-shaven jaw and dark hair frame a body caught between rest and restless motion, every shift of his weight pulling the sheets tighter against his thighs. His hands move with deliberate precision, mapping out the lines of his own body as he lies on his stomach, then rolls onto his back with a quiet, deliberate roll. The only sound is the faint rustle of fabric and the steady, focused rhythm of his touch.
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