Grant Ducati’s bearded jaw rests against the wall as Masyn Thorne’s fingers dig into his hips, pulling him deeper into the thrusts that slam his ass against the cold surface. The dark hair of the one on top is slick with sweat, his knuckles white where they grip the other’s waist, while the one below braces himself, legs spread wide to take every rough stroke. The only sound is the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, unbroken by anything but the harsh rhythm of their bodies.
