Mike Dasher’s fingers dig deep into Carlo Masi’s tight hole while he leans over him on the yellow poolside chair, the sun glinting off their sweat-slicked skin. Carlo grips the armrest, his breath ragged as Dasher’s thumb presses just right, the outdoor heat thick between them. Their mouths crash together, tongues tangled as one hand slides lower, fingers slick with need. The pool hums in the background, but all that matters is the way Carlo arches into the touch.
