Deangelo Jackson grips Derek Cline’s hips, his fingers digging in as he drives deep, the other man’s breath hitching around his cock. Outside the balcony, the air smells of salt and sweat as Derek takes him slow, lips sealed tight around the thick head. A glass clinks between them, half-empty, while Deangelo’s hands brace against the railing, his thrusts steady and relentless.
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