Johnny Cooper’s clean-shaven, slim frame pins Scott Demarco against the sheets, his beard rough against the other’s chest as they press together in a tight, open-mouthed kiss. Demarco’s dark hair falls forward while Cooper’s fingers dig into his ribs, tracing the hard lines of his muscular back. The bed dips under them, their bodies locked in a slow, unhurried grip, hands sliding over skin, lips never breaking contact.
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