Logan Moore grips his cock with a tight, calloused fist while Tryp Bates leans in, his dark hair framing a face that’s all sharp angles and quiet intensity, both men lost in the slow, deliberate pull of their own hands. The air between them is thick with the sound of skin against skin, the wet slap of their palms as they work each other’s shafts with deliberate precision. Tryp’s biceps flex as he angles his wrist just right, his breath steady, while Logan’s jaw tightens, his grip never slipping. No words, no hesitation, just the, unfiltered motion of two bodies moving in perfect, hungry sync.
