Dante Foxx stands with his broad, tattooed chest flexed, his clean-shaven jaw tight as he grips the edge of a table, muscles straining under the weight of his own strength. The ink on his arms snakes down to his knuckles, visible even when his hands clench into fists or rest against his hips, framing the sharp angles of his body. His blond hair falls just enough to hide his eyes, but the way he holds himself, shoulders back, chest out, makes it clear he’s not here to be looked at, but to show what he can do.
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