Pip Caulfield and Luca Carrera

Pip Caulfield’s beard scrapes Luca Carrera’s throat as he takes him deep, fingers already working the tight hole while the other man’s tongue drags slow, deliberate strokes over his lips. The bench creaks under them, roots of nearby trees framing the way Carrera arches into Pip’s grip, his ass clenching around the probing digit. No hands reach for protection, just the rough press of skin, the wet slap of lips, and the way Pip’s grip tightens when Carrera’s breath hitches, his hole already glistening.