Aaron Blake grips the armrests of the couch as Jimmy Durano kneels between his thighs, his dark hair framing a face that’s all sharp angles and controlled strength, while the blond’s fingers dig into the purple shirt. Durano’s tongue traces the seam of Blake’s lips before his mouth seals around him, teeth grazing just enough to make the suck harder, while a tattooed forearm flexes against the couch cushion. His fingers slide inside, curling deep as Blake’s hips lift off the seat, the only sound the wet, rhythmic drag of skin against skin.
