Justin Saradon grips Sven Basquiat’s hips hard as he slams into him against the tree, the rough bark digging into his back while the blond’s breath hitches with every thrust. His fingers dig into Sven’s thighs, holding him tight as the forest light catches the sweat glistening on their skin. The dark-haired one moans low, his body arching back into each deep stroke, the air thick with the sound of flesh meeting flesh.
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