Tate Ryder’s tattooed arms wrap around Andy Samuel’s waist as he guides his mouth down, teeth grazing the other man’s neck before his tongue traces the thick vein beneath. Samuel’s fingers dig into Ryder’s shoulders, gripping the blindfolded man’s back as they press together, the city’s distant hum lost beneath the rough press of their bodies. The blindfold hides nothing, only the way Ryder’s breath hitches when Samuel’s hand slides lower, fingers curling around the taut muscle of his ass.
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