Chris Bines grips Paul Wagner’s chest, his tattooed arms wrapping tight around the other man’s back as they press together in a rough, open-mouthed kiss. Wagner’s muscles ripple beneath the touch, his own inked forearms flexing as Bines drags his hands down his chest, fingers brushing the hard planes of his ribs. The embrace leaves no space between them, their bodies locked in a way that makes every breath feel deliberate.
