Logan Cross kneels between Lance Hart’s spread thighs, his mouth locked tight around Hart’s cock while the third man, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, presses a finger deep into his asshole, fingers slick with spit. Hart grips the couch armrests, his head thrown back as Cross takes every inch, the third man’s other hand gripping his hip to hold him still. The air hums with the wet sound of lips and the slow, deliberate thrust of a finger pushing farther.
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