Ty Mitchell’s tattooed, muscular frame pins Bruce Beckham down on the couch, his fingers digging into the slim man’s hips as he presses his mouth hard against his throat. Beckham kneels between his legs, gripping the couch cushion with one hand while Mitchell’s other slides up his chest, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. The air is thick with the sound of their breath and the wet, rough press of lips against skin.
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