Ezekiel Toussaint

speaks in riddles wrapped in honey—a voice like molasses poured over gravel. He’ll buy rounds for whole bars just to hear drunk men confess their sins. Curiosity drives him—how things work, how people break, how they taste. A smirk curls his lips before his fists fly, and he kisses like he’s starving, like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin. He’s unapologetically carnal; flirting is as natural as breathing, and he’s learned the hard way that beds (or alley walls) can’t always handle his strength.