Marcus Ruhl’s tattooed, broad-shouldered frame looms over Angel Rock as he kneels, his smooth chest pressed against the cold tiles, while Ruhl’s fingers dig deep into his hole. Rock’s lips seal around Ruhl’s cock with a wet, hungry suction, his dark hair falling forward as Ruhl grips his waist, guiding the thrusts. The air thickens with the sound of skin slapping against tile, their bodies locked in a rhythm of need.
