Louis Ricaute grips John Brachalli’s hips, his tattooed arms flexing as he drives into him with rough, relentless thrusts against the archway. Brachalli stands still, his slim frame pressed tight, dark hair slick with sweat as Ricaute’s beard scrapes his jaw. Their mouths crash together, tongues clashing hard while fingers dig into flesh, no gentleness, just the force of one man holding another in place. The archway frames them like a cage, but neither moves.
