Tony Falco grips Logan Birch’s hips, his dark hair framing a face pressed into the curve of his neck as he drives deep into the tight, clenching hole. The bearded man’s fingers dig into the couch’s fabric while Logan’s smooth, muscular back arches under the relentless thrusts, his breath ragged against the curtained backdrop. The only sound is the wet slap of skin and the muffled groan of a man held down by sheer force.
