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Jodi West, Johnny Love Pic(s)
The worn leather of the armchair sighed under his shifting weight, a quiet sound swallowed by the rhythmic hum of the house at night. His fingers, usually calloused from work, traced the smooth, cool surface of the screen with an unexpected reverence, his knuckles brushing agat his own thigh in a slow, absent rhythm. The pale blue light painted the sharp line of his jaw and the hollow of his throat, casting long shadows that danced with the shallow rise and fall of his chest. A bead of sweat traced a deliberate path from his temple, following the curve of his cheekbone before disappearing into the stubble along his jawline. He leaned closer, the scent of his aftershave, now faint and mingled with the warmth of his skin, filling the small space between him and the glowing images. A low, almost imperceptible groan escaped his lips, a vibration felt more than heard, as his gaze intensified, drinking in the forbidden tableau unfolding before him. The fabric of his trousers tightened across his lap, a subtle but undeniable testament to the heat coiling deep within his belly. Every flicker of movement on the display was met with a corresponding tension in his body, a silent conversation of desire that made the air itself feel thick and heavy. In this stolen moment, he was not a figure of authority but a man utterly captivated, lost in a private world of visual temptation that quickened his pulse and held his breath captive.
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