Danny Palick grips Jackson Taylor’s hips hard as he drives deep, the woods around them thick with the sound of their breath and the wet slap of flesh. Taylor kneels on a red blanket, his fingers already working his own hole while Palick’s beard scratches his neck, then pulls back just enough to tease the head of his cock against the tight ring before slamming home again. The tree behind them splits the light, casting long shadows over the way Taylor’s mouth opens around Palick’s wrist, his tongue tracing the veins as fingers dig into his waist. No words, just the rough rhythm of bodies pressed into the earth.
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