Blake Dyson kneels between Masyn Thorne’s spread legs while his tattooed forearm traces the other’s slick hole, fingers already buried deep. Thorne sits rigid on the edge of the bed, gripping Blake’s wrist as he leans in for a bruising kiss, their mouths open wide. The air hums with the wet sound of fingers sliding in and out, each thrust deliberate, each breath ragged.
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