Marc Anthony dropped in 1968, born and bred in the States. He’s the kind that walks into a room and leaves it warmer than he found it—dark eyes that linger, a smirk that says he’s already two steps ahead. When he decides to play, there’s no guessing; he gets down to it, hips moving slow and deliberate, hands guiding the pace with zero apology. Sweaty sheets under bodies tangled like they’re trying to prove a point, his voice rough in your ear as he tells you exactly what he’s about to do next. Every thrust lands heavy, confident, like he wants you to remember who’s running things tonight. Not the type to rush, but damn sure he finishes like a winner.
Marc Anthony dropped in 1968, born and bred in the States. He’s the kind that walks into a room and leaves it warmer than he found it—dark eyes that linger, a smirk that says he’s already two steps ahead. When he decides to play, there’s no guessing; he gets down to it, hips moving slow and deliberate, hands guiding the pace with zero apology. Sweaty sheets under bodies tangled like they’re trying to prove a point, his voice rough in your ear as he tells you exactly what he’s about to do next. Every thrust lands heavy, confident, like he wants you to remember who’s running things tonight. Not the type to rush, but damn sure he finishes like a winner.
