Tayte Hanson grips Max Wilde’s shoulders while his tattooed arms coil around him, lips locked in a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Wilde’s muscular chest presses into him as Hanson’s tongue forces its way past his teeth, fingers tangling in the dark hair at his nape. The close embrace leaves no space between them, their bodies locked in a rhythm of sucking and pulling until Wilde’s hands grip the back of Hanson’s head, holding him tight.
