Rocco Milano grips the rugby ball between his thighs, muscles straining as he arches his back, the leather tight against his cock. His dark hair falls forward, framing a face carved from stone, every pose a deliberate flex of power, shirtless, the ball pressed close, then held aloft as if challenging gravity. The couch frames him, but the only thing that matters is how the ball hides nothing, how his grip never loosens.
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