Justin Cross kneels between Travis Cooper’s spread legs, his mouth locked tight around the dark-haired man’s thick toe as fingers dig into the smooth, muscular calf. Travis arches his back, gripping the sheets, while Justin’s other hand traces slow, deliberate circles up the shin, each stroke deliberate, the tongue flicking just past the nail bed. The bed creaks under their weight as lips seal around the arch, teeth grazing the sole with controlled pressure, the air thick with the scent of sweat and salt.
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