Rob Quin’s beard brushes Scott Demarco’s throat as he grips his hips, fingers already probing the tight hole while the stethoscope clamps around his chest, bareback, no barrier between them. Scott’s dark hair falls forward as Rob’s tongue traces the rim of his ass, the hospital bed creaking under their weight, tools left scattered like forgotten instruments. They strip in silence, muscles flexing as the act shifts from teasing to deep, unprotected thrusts, the medical setting only heightening the raw intensity.
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