Shane Stone’s beard scrapes Guy Rogers’ chest as he grips his waist, fingers already probing deep into his hole while Guy’s breath hitches against the red lace straining over his hips. The tattooed one pins him down, his cock thick and flushed as he guides it into place, the first thrust rough and unapologetic. Guy’s hands claw at the sheets, if they’re sheets, as Shane’s mouth seals over his, tongue forcing its way past lips still damp from earlier. The only sound is the wet slap of skin, the way Guy’s ass lifts off the surface when Shane pulls back just to slam home again.
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