Shoot

Kip Harting lounged alone in the dim glow of his penthouse, the city lights a distant shimmer beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. His fingers traced the hard ridge of his cock through the silk of his boxers, teasing the growing ache. He freed himself with a slow pull, the fabric whispering down his thighs. Thick and veined, it sprang into his palm, already leaking a pearl of precum that he smeared with his thumb. Short breaths escaped him as he gripped tighter, stroking from base to tip in firm, deliberate pulls. His hips bucked once, involuntarily, chasing the building heat. Eyes half-lidded, he imagined her—soft curves, parted lips—but tonight, it was just him, his hand a relentless rhythm. Faster now, the slick slide echoing in the quiet room. A low groan built in his chest, spilling out as tension coiled low and fierce. He came hard, ropes of cum arcing onto his taut abdomen, each pulse leaving him shuddering, spent in the afterglow.