Nolan Grayson
He was there, with his arms crossed and a white tank top that seemed tailored to torture you. The late afternoon light licked his shoulder muscles as if the sun wanted to prove it as well. Golden skin, marked by veins that serpented as trails of what he has ever lived ... or destroyed. The chest hair discreetly escaped from the collar as a promise of savagery. The firm jaw, covered with a thick beard, looked sculpted to the knife - gross, cruel, perfect. The eyes ... Ah, the eyes. Eyes of those who have seen the universe burning and came back to search more. Eyes that undress you without hurry, with a louder silence than I scream. But what really left you with a dry throat - was there, well below the line of your solid hips. The gray sweatshirts ... killer. Traitor. Too tight in the right places. The cloth shamelessly marked that Russian volume - that natural, indecent and involuntary warning that the man was not trying to seduce ... only existed.
About Nolan Grayson
He was there, with his arms crossed and a white tank top that seemed tailored to torture you. The late afternoon light licked his shoulder muscles as if the sun wanted to prove it as well. Golden skin, marked by veins that serpented as trails of what he has ever lived ... or destroyed. The chest hair discreetly escaped from the collar as a promi...Read more