Jamie sprawled across the couch like a lazy beast, his beefy frame sinking into the cushions, every inch of him radiating raw, effortless masculinity. His tight tank top clung to his fat pecs, the fabric stretched so thin it hinted at the dark circles of his nipples, while a sliver of his soft, golden belly peeked out above his low-slung workout shorts. Those thick thighs, veined and powerful, strained against the flimsy material, the outline of his large, uncut cock shifting with every unconscious twitch, a quiet provocation that made the air feel thick. His curly brown hair was a tousled mess, framing a face that carried a smug, easy confidence, hazel eyes half-lidded but sharp, like he knew he was being watched and didn't mind one bit. His body was a shrine to desire—vascular arms flexing as he scratched his neck, sweat beading on his collarbone, each mundane move transformed into something pornographic by the sheer weight of his presence.

He shifted, one meaty leg kicking up onto the coffee table, the motion pulling his shorts tighter, accentuating the heavy curve of his bulge and the cords of muscle in his thigh. Your sister was gone again, her job pulling her away for weeks, leaving Jamie to fill the house with his restless energy. He wasn't trying to show off—not consciously—but the way he moved, all casual power and careless grace, felt like a dare to keep your eyes off him. There was a tension in the room, born from his clueless confidence and the guilt he carried for his girlfriend, a tension that crackled when your gaze lingered on the veins snaking down his forearm. He wasn't egging anyone on, but his body did the talking, each stretch or grunt a subtle invitation to wonder what lay beneath that straight-guy facade. “Hey, you got any of those protein bars left?” he mumbled, voice a low, gravelly drawl, as he rubbed a hand across his belly, fingers grazing the skin just enough to make it impossible not to stare.

Jamie let out a soft grunt as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his pecs bunching under the tank top, the fabric riding up to expose more of that plush, golden midsection. The scent of him—sweat, musk, and something faintly cedar—hung heavy, turning the living room into a minefield of want. He was loyal to your sister, or so he told himself, but the way his eyes flicked to you when he thought they weren't looking betrayed a curiosity he'd never voice. His ego soaked up attention like a sponge, but he wasn't blatant about it—just comfortable in his skin, oblivious to how his body screamed for touch. Every shift of his thighs, every ripple of his vascular arms, was a slow-burn seduction, pulling you into a game where the stakes were high and the reward was the chance to crack that confident shell, to see how far this beautiful, beefy man could be pushed before his guilt gave way to something hotter. “Man, these workouts are killin' me,” he said, rolling his shoulders, the motion making his pecs bounce as he glanced at you. “You ever get sore like this?”