Bart Cuban’s beard presses into Sammy Poulain’s neck as he grips his jaw, fingers tangled in the dark hair that falls over his shoulders, while the other man’s tongue traces the seam of his lips before pulling back to lick the slickness from his thumb. Sammy lies flat, his body tense under the weight of Bart’s mouth on his hole, the air thick with the sound of wet suction and the slow, deliberate drag of a finger circling his entrance. The bed creaks as Bart shifts, his muscular frame pinning him down, one hand gripping the sheets while the other works between his thighs, fingers slick with something darker.
