because Jesus fuck, West McNamara had filled out fine. Broad shoulders, a strong back, and a tapered waist. Those dark jeans of his showed off muscular thighs and an ass I didn’t need to be noticing. Black ink covered his tanned skin in a wild array of tattoos. The most prominent was the pair of angel wings coming out of his shoulder blades, covering both arms, and ending in roses on his hands. Barbed wire spiraled down his spine while stars cascaded over his right side. The nine rough scars etched into his left side piqued my curiosity, but I’d be damned if I’d ever ask what happened. So did
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