Troye Dean’s broad shoulders press into the sofa as he leans forward, his muscular frame shifting from sharp suit jacket to bare chest, while Dante Colle’s slim fingers trace the lapel of his tie, already loosened, before slipping inside to unbutton it. Michael Boston watches, his dark hair falling just enough to obscure the way his own cuffs slide free, the fabric pooling at his wrists as he shifts, the last of his formality dissolving into the moment. The air thickens when Troye’s hand closes around Dante’s waist, pulling him closer, the first slow press of lips against skin marking the start of something that won’t stay soft for long.
