Hoyt Kogan grips Frederick Perin’s hips, his dark hair framing a muscular frame as he pins him against the brick wall, tongue deep in his mouth while fingers dig into warm, smooth skin. The air between them thickens with the press of lips and the rough scrape of hands, one slick with need, the other steady as he lifts Perin just enough to drive in slow, deliberate thrusts. The wall behind them holds them both, a silent witness to the way Hoyt’s grip tightens when Perin moans, his breath ragged against the kiss.
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