Seth Peterson: One To One
Boy next door, Seth Peterson, kicks the hotel door shut with the heel of one leather shoe. The sun is already rising over the southern Spanish coast, casting a warm gold shimmer across the room. He pauses at the window, sweeps the hair out of his eyes, and lets the sea breeze cool the heat still lingering on his skin. Last night had been a blur of music, drinks, and bodies pressed a little too close. He smiled to himself — charming, cocky, just this side of dangerous. His suit still looks sharp, even rumpled. Blue plaid with just enough boldness to stand out, white shirt unbuttoned low, and that cowboy belt—Texas meets Malaga. A little laugh escapes him. He knows he looks good. Hell, he always looks good. Seth peels off the shirt, slowly, watching himself in the mirror. Every muscle carved from years of discipline; every line purposeful. He steps out of his pants and stands there in white briefs that cling to his body like a second skin. He flexes a little — abs tight, jaw sharp; the kind of body that makes people stare too long in elevators. He likes that. He likes being the fantasy. He stretches out on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting low on his stomach. The sheets cool against his skin. The city is waking up below him. And him? Wide awake, hard as hell, and already wondering who he'll let in next as he begins to stroke his cock. After a big night out, he needs to cum.
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