Michael Boston and Bo Baxxter

Michael Boston’s beard scrapes against Bo Baxxter’s throat as he grips his jaw, fingers digging into the pale, tattooed skin while Bo’s tongue drags slow circles around the underside of his lips. The sheets twist beneath them as Boston flips him onto his back, the bed’s edge biting into Bo’s ribs, before his cock slides deep into the tight, willing hole, no prep, no hesitation. Bo’s fingers curl into the pillow, his breath ragged as Boston’s weight pins him down, the only sound the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh and the rough rasp of Boston’s voice, low and unfiltered, when he finally lets go.