Peter Wilder, David Bradley and Spike

Peter Wilder’s beard scrapes David Bradley’s jaw as he pins him to the lounge chair, fingers digging into the smooth muscle of his back while Bradley’s tongue forces its way past lips still damp from the pool. The sun bleaches their dark hair into sharp lines against the chair’s leather, but neither moves, Wilder’s grip tightens, pulling Bradley’s hips up just enough to expose the way his cock strains against the fabric. The only sound is the wet slap of Bradley’s palm against Wilder’s thigh, marking the spot where he’ll take him next.