Bathed in warm, golden fairy light, he lies bare on a bed of pink rose petals—flesh gleaming, toned, and irresistible. One leg raised high, hand gripping firm to show off every inch of his flexed, glistening body. But it’s the way his left hand moves—once teasing his lips, now drifting down to trace the pulsing bloom between his cheeks—that leaves you breathless. His index finger glides around the swollen rose of his prolapse, slow and deliberate, showing it off like the sweetest secret. A smirk plays on his lips as if to say, “This is yours.” He doesn’t give flowers for Valentine’s. He is the flower.🌹