The man runs hot. Ricky Larkin barely gets his shorts past his thighs before the evidence of his arousal becomes visually undeniable — a thick strand of pre-cum connecting his swollen head to the fabric like a bridge between clothed respectability and naked need. His cock doesn’t wait for stimulation to start producing; it’s been leaking since the first suggestion of what’s about to happen. The glistening trail grows as he stands fully exposed, his thick shaft twitching with each heartbeat and releasing fresh drops of crystal-clear pre-cum that catch the light like obscene jewelry. Larkin’s not embarrassed — he’s a man whose body runs ahead of his brain, already preparing for entry before he’s even decided where that entry will be. His cock is the most honest part of him.
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