Angel Santi sits on a countertop, his lean frame half-hidden in blue swim trunks, fingers tracing slow circles over his cock while his dark hair falls just past his collarbone. He leans against a wall in the bathroom, legs spread wide, gripping himself with deliberate pressure as the mug in his other hand goes untouched. Every pose, arms raised, back arched, keeps his hole exposed, the tension in his jaw the only hint of how hard he’s working himself. The kitchen counter becomes his stage, the cold surface doing nothing to dull the heat of what he’s doing.
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