Jimmy Durano grips Ricky Roman’s hips, his tattooed arms flexing as he drives into him hard on the rough stone slab, the forest’s damp air thick with the sound of their grunts. Ricky’s dark hair falls forward as he braces against the mossy surface, his muscular back straining under Durano’s relentless thrusts. The greenery presses in around them, but only their bodies move, no hesitation, no softness, just the wet slap of skin and the way Durano’s grip tightens when Ricky’s hole clenches.
