Enrico Belaggio grips Tom Gree’s chest with rough, calloused hands while the other leans into him, their mouths crashing together as the bar’s bottles blur behind them. Tom’s dark hair falls forward as Enrico tugs the cloth from his grip, fingers tracing the smooth, corded muscles beneath. They stand pressed together, hands locked tight, the only sound the wet slap of lips and the distant clink of glass.
More galleries
