Damien Crosse’s tattooed arms flex as he grips his cock, the dark hair on his chest catching the light while Theo Ford watches from the chair beside him, his own thick shaft already slick with precome. Both men move with deliberate, heavy strokes, the muscles in their forearms rippling with each pull, their focus locked on the slow, deliberate rhythm of their hands. The air hums with the wet, rhythmic sound of skin against flesh as they work themselves open, their breaths steady and unhurried.
