Manuel Skye’s beard scrapes against River Wilson’s jaw as he grips his hips, fingers probing deep while Matthew Parker kneels behind, his tongue tracing the curve of Skye’s ass before pulling him into a bruising kiss. The couch creaks under their weight as Wilson’s hands grip the armrests, his breath ragged with need, while Parker’s mouth works Skye’s hole open with slow, deliberate pressure. Their bodies move in sync, one stretching, the other filling, until Skye’s fingers dig into Wilson’s shoulders, holding him still for the deep, relentless thrusts that follow.
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