Lucas Bouvier’s tattooed, muscular frame pins Paul Delay down, his dark hair framing a smooth, chiseled body as he works the hole with rough precision, fingers probing, tongue tracing the rim before the first slow, deliberate thrust of his mouth. The bed creaks under them as Bouvier’s grip tightens, his own hole already wet and ready, the close-up framing the, unfiltered invasion of Delay’s tongue against the tight ring.
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