Angel Rock grips Patrick Hand’s hips, his dark hair falling forward as he presses his mouth down hard, fingers digging into the smooth, muscular back while the Aeropostale shirt rides up. Patrick bends low, his own dark hair brushing the sheets as Angel Rock’s weight pins him, their tongues clashing with rough, open-mouthed hunger. The bedroom fades as Angel Rock’s grip tightens, pulling Patrick’s body flush against his, the only sound the wet, desperate sound of their breathing.
