Alex Vens sits on the couch, gripping a black polka-dotted object while his muscular arms flex over tattoos that snake up his chest, then leans back with a smirk as his fingers work himself open. The couch cushions dip beneath him, legs splayed wide, the tension in his grip matching the way his mouth curves, until he stops, the object still half-clutched, his smile sharp as he poses like he’s daring you to ask what comes next.
