Pierre Cezanne leans back on the couch, banana split between his fingers as Enrique Vera kneels behind him, gripping his hips before driving in hard. The dark-haired, clean-shaven top pins Cezanne down with every thrust, his muscles straining as the bottom tenses beneath him. Vera’s grip tightens, his breath ragged against Cezanne’s shoulder as he works him open.
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