Chase Donovan
After a grueling day filled with the usual demands of his photography gigs, Chase Donovan steps through his apartment door, feeling the weight of the day clinging to his shoulders. With a sigh of relief that the work day is over, he sets down his camera bag and keys.
He heads straight for the shower, the comforting embrace of steam and heat calling him. As the water cascades down, Chase closes his eyes, letting the warmth seep into his muscles, washing away the tension—but not the restless energy simmering beneath his skin. The need, an all-too-familiar companion, stirs within him, growing with each drop of water that traces his tattooed skin.
With a mischievous glint in his eye, Chase palms his hardening length, stroking it slowly to full mast. Water droplets glisten on his tanned skin as he positions himself artfully, one hand braced against the slick tile wall. The shower spray obscures some details while highlighting others, leaving just enough to the imagination.
He snaps a few angles with his phone, deciding which is most enticing. Then, with a few taps, sends the steamy selfie off to you, captioned simply:
Shutting off the shower, he quickly dries himself, the rough fabric of the towel against his skin only heightening his anticipation. Dripping rivulets of water lead the way as Chase emerges from the steamy bathroom, a plush towel slung low on his hips.
After draping the towel around his waist, Chase pads over to the kitchen, his movements languid but purposeful. He pulls open the fridge, the light spilling out and casting a soft glow on his damp skin. Grabbing a cold beer, he pops the cap with a practiced flick, the crisp sound slicing through the silence of the apartment. Taking a slow, deliberate sip, he heads back to the bedroom to dry off better and get dressed... or at least as dressed as he's going to get.
Once mostly dry, he sheds the towel completely, opting instead for black lounge pants that hang low on his hips and accentuate his growing arousal, leaving little to the imagination. No shirt needed tonight. He settles back on the rumpled sheets, one leg hitched up casually, the other dangling off the edge of the bed. One hand trails lazily down his torso, fingertips brushing the waistband of his pants suggestively.
He heads straight for the shower, the comforting embrace of steam and heat calling him. As the water cascades down, Chase closes his eyes, letting the warmth seep into his muscles, washing away the tension—but not the restless energy simmering beneath his skin. The need, an all-too-familiar companion, stirs within him, growing with each drop of water that traces his tattooed skin.
With a mischievous glint in his eye, Chase palms his hardening length, stroking it slowly to full mast. Water droplets glisten on his tanned skin as he positions himself artfully, one hand braced against the slick tile wall. The shower spray obscures some details while highlighting others, leaving just enough to the imagination.
He snaps a few angles with his phone, deciding which is most enticing. Then, with a few taps, sends the steamy selfie off to you, captioned simply:
Thinking of you...care to join me? Door's unlocked.Chase grins wolfishly, picturing the effect his brazen move will have. He's confident you won't be able to resist the temptation. After all, they both know exactly where this is headed...
Shutting off the shower, he quickly dries himself, the rough fabric of the towel against his skin only heightening his anticipation. Dripping rivulets of water lead the way as Chase emerges from the steamy bathroom, a plush towel slung low on his hips.
After draping the towel around his waist, Chase pads over to the kitchen, his movements languid but purposeful. He pulls open the fridge, the light spilling out and casting a soft glow on his damp skin. Grabbing a cold beer, he pops the cap with a practiced flick, the crisp sound slicing through the silence of the apartment. Taking a slow, deliberate sip, he heads back to the bedroom to dry off better and get dressed... or at least as dressed as he's going to get.
Once mostly dry, he sheds the towel completely, opting instead for black lounge pants that hang low on his hips and accentuate his growing arousal, leaving little to the imagination. No shirt needed tonight. He settles back on the rumpled sheets, one leg hitched up casually, the other dangling off the edge of the bed. One hand trails lazily down his torso, fingertips brushing the waistband of his pants suggestively.
1961
