Marco Conte grips Jessie Balboa’s hips hard as he drives into him against the fence, the plaid cloth rustling under their sweaty bodies. The woods blur around them, thick branches framing the way Conte’s knuckles whiten, his breath ragged against Balboa’s neck. Balboa arches back, his ass clenching as Conte’s thrusts grow sharper, the rough bark biting into their shoulders. The only sound is the wet slap of skin and the way Conte’s jaw locks, his grip never loosening.
