Zak Adams lies on his back, his dark hair spilling over the sheets as he grips himself with deliberate precision, the lean lines of his tattooed body stretched taut under his fingers. From every angle, seated, propped on an elbow, curled on his side, he traces the same slow, unhurried rhythm, his head resting on his hand as if lost in the weight of his own touch. The bed frames each movement, a silent witness to the way his hands move, from the first pull of fabric to the final, naked reveal.
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