Emmett Frost’s beard scrapes Steve Sommers’ jaw as they crush together in the damp earth near the garden, his fingers digging into Sommers’ shoulders while lips lock tight. Sommers grips Frost’s waist, pulling him closer as their bodies press flush, the air thick with the weight of their breath and the rough press of skin. The garden fades behind them, swallowed by the way Frost’s hands slide down Sommers’ back, fingers curling into the warm flesh just above his ass.
