Micah Jones, broad-chested and inked across his ribs, pins Jack Griffin against the couch, his fingers digging into the lighter’s shoulders as their mouths crash together. The blond’s head tilts back just enough for Jones to drag his tongue deep, his own tattooed chest pressed flush against the other’s as they grind close. Jack’s hands grip the couch armrests, knuckles white, while Jones’ grip never loosens, just enough pressure to keep him exactly where he wants him.
