Torsten Ullman grips Helmut Huxley’s wrist as he leans in, their mouths crashing together over the slick wood near the water’s edge, one hand tangled in dark hair, the other pressing into smooth, corded muscle. Huxley arches into the kiss, his fingers digging into Ullman’s shoulder while the other man’s breath hitches against his neck. The air between them is thick with the weight of their bodies, hands never breaking contact as the wood creaks under their grip.
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