Johnny Hands secures Dylan Hayes in tight red silk around his wrists and throat, his own dark hair falling forward as he presses his mouth to the marks he leaves. Dylan lies bound, neck exposed, while Johnny’s tongue traces the sensitive skin beneath the fabric, his own muscular frame shifting between positions, sometimes kneeling, sometimes sprawled beside him. The black silk appears later, binding wrists again as Dylan rolls onto his side, still trapped but never silent, his body responding to every pull of the restraints.
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