Michael Boston sprawls across the couch, shirtless and unshaven, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he leans back with one arm draped over the armrest, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. His muscles ripple as he shifts positions, squatting, legs spread, then collapsing back with a groan, hands gripping his head like he’s fighting the weight of his own desire. Paul Wagner watches from the edge of the frame, his presence implied in the way Boston’s body bends toward the couch, legs parting just enough to show the stretch of his thighs before the camera lingers on the slow, deliberate way he works himself open.
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