Christopher Caan pins Jason Bacall down on the couch, his dark hair framing a face pressed into the cushions as he grips the back of his head, fingers already sliding between his thighs. The bearded man’s muscular chest rises with each sharp inhale, his hole already slick as Caan’s tongue traces the tight ring before diving in. Bacall arches into the touch, his hands clutching the couch as Caan’s grip tightens, fingers working deep while his mouth never stops. The only sound is the wet, rhythmic pull of flesh against flesh, the couch creaking under their weight as Bacall’s hips lift to meet every thrust.
