Nash Lawler and Spencer Whitman

Nash Lawler grips his cock hard, the thick vein pulsing as he strokes himself against the cold metal railing, his muscular arms flexing with each rough pull. Spencer Whitman stands close, his brown hair slightly damp, watching the way Nash’s fist works over his length before leaning in to lick the salt from his knuckles. The air between them is thick with the sound of skin slapping skin, both of them lost in the rhythm of their own hands.