Bairon Hell’s thick arms wrap around Viktor Rom’s waist as he kneels, his beard rough against the other’s bare chest, while Rom lies sprawled on the couch, fingers already probing the tight hole of his asshole. Hell’s tongue swipes over the puckered flesh before his mouth seals around it, teeth grazing as he works the slick entrance with deliberate pressure. Their hands clasp tight, knuckles white, as Rom arches into the slow, deep thrusts of Hell’s tongue, the couch creaking under his weight.
