Deacon Hunter kneels behind Ethan Oliver, his stocky frame pressing into the seated man’s smooth skin as fingers dig deep into the lower back and buttocks. The dark-haired Oliver stays still, his bald head tilted slightly as Hunter’s calloused hands trace the curve of his shoulders and arms, then glide down to the legs. No oil, no tools, just the rough, deliberate pressure of a massage that turns into something harder, the weight shifting as Hunter’s grip tightens on Oliver’s ass.
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