Damien Stone kneels over Aston Springs, his tattooed arm wrapped tight around the other man’s waist as he drives deep with slow, deliberate thrusts while Dante Colle watches from the bed, licking the sheets clean of the first wet streaks. Aston’s fingers dig into the pillow, his hole stretched open as Damien’s grip never loosens, while Dante’s tongue traces the sweat beading on his chest, no hesitation, just the press of bodies and the sound of skin slapping. The sheets twist under them, the bed frame groaning as one man holds still, the other moves like he’s memorized every inch.
