Tayte Hanson grips Darius Ferdynand’s shoulders, his fingers digging into muscle as their mouths crash together in a rough, open-mouthed kiss, no hesitation, just the wet sound of teeth clashing and tongues tangling. Ferdynand’s chest rises and falls hard beneath Tayte’s touch, his own hands gripping back, thumbs brushing over the ridges of his own abs as the kiss deepens into something more demanding. The close-up leaves no doubt: this isn’t just foreplay, it’s the kind of claiming that starts with hands and ends where they’re both headed.
