Don Colin’s beard presses into Brian Brower’s mouth as he grips his jaw, tongue forcing its way past lips still slick from the other’s cock. The lean, dark-haired one kneels between his legs, fingers probing the tight ring of his asshole while his own hairy chest brushes against the cap Brian wears. Every lick, every suck, every rough pull of his hair leaves a wet trail down his throat, his hands gripping Don’s thighs as the other’s cock swells against his tongue. The only sound is the wet slap of lips, the rasp of breath, and the slow, deliberate drag of a finger circling before slipping inside.
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