Toys R' You

The bed is a battlefield and he’s surrendered willingly — not to a person, but to sensation. His body, wrapped in leather and want, is framed by the echoes of what came before: scattered toys, slick and glinting. You don’t see his face, but you don’t need to — it’s all there in the arch of his back, the invitation spelled out in sweat and stretch, the silence begging for one more.