Calvin Banks, broad-shouldered and bearded, grips Adam Russo’s hips as he drives into him with slow, deliberate thrusts. Russo’s curly hair falls forward, obscuring his face as Banks’ grip tightens, his knuckles white against the curve of his ass. The air hums with the wet sound of flesh slamming together, the only light catching the sweat glistening on Russo’s back. Banks doesn’t stop, his rhythm steady, his breath ragged, just the two of them, one holding on, the other taking every inch.
