Damon Andros, broad-shouldered and bearded, grips Max Henry’s hips from behind while his slim frame arches into the grass, the dark hair at his nape catching the light as he takes it deep. The angle shows his knuckles flexing against Max’s waist, the way his grip shifts when he pulls back just enough to let the head slide free before slamming home again. Max’s fingers dig into the turf, his body stretched taut between the thrusts, the only sound the wet smack of skin meeting skin.
