Sven Basquiat’s lean, tattooed frame pins Ben Radcliffe against the rough stone ledge, his fingers digging into the younger man’s hips as they grind together. The sun filters through the leaves above, but neither moves, just the slow, deliberate press of Sven’s mouth on Ben’s, his tongue tracing the seam of his lips before slipping inside. His hands grip Ben’s cock through the thin fabric, thumbing the head until it swells, while Ben arches into the touch, his own fingers tangled in Sven’s light hair. The air smells of damp earth and sweat as they work each other open, the ledge their only witness.
