Ajax Wolff’s blue hair frames a face pressed into James Bennett’s throat as he grips his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle of his back while Bennett’s tongue traces the sharp lines of his tattoos. The bearded man lies sprawled on the couch, his cock already wet with saliva as Wolff’s lips seal around the head, teeth scraping the underside before pulling back to lick the slit. One hand slides between Bennett’s thighs, two fingers probing deep as the other clutches the couch cushion, knuckles white, no barrier between them, just the sound of Bennett’s breath hitching when Wolff curls his fingers just right. Outside, the city hums unseen as Wolff’s free hand grips his own shaft, stroking in time with the slow, deliberate thrusts of his fingers inside Bennett.
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