Rhys Jagger grips Pierre Cezanne’s hips while his tongue traces the tight ring of his asshole, fingers already probing deep inside. The magazine lies open beside them, forgotten as Cezanne arches into the stretch, his dark hair damp with sweat from the slow, deliberate pull of Rhys’s mouth. A hand slides between them, slick with precome, as Cezanne’s breath hitches against the pressure.
