Buddy Davis grips Isaac Conn’s hips as he drives deep, his dark hair framing a body built for control, while Isaac’s smooth, muscular frame bends under the relentless thrusts. They press together shirtless, arms locked around each other’s backs, the curtains behind them barely visible as Buddy’s hands dig into the curve of Conn’s ass. Jeans ride low, exposing the tight grip of his grip as he holds Conn’s waist, the only sound the wet slap of flesh against flesh.
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