Leeroy Jones grips Sammy Nicks’ hips while his tattooed chest presses into the striped shirt, fingers digging into the muscle as he guides him into position, both men locked in the rigid stance of a fucking pose, Leeroy’s weight shifting just enough to stretch Nicks’ ass against the edge of the frame. The star emblems on their shirts catch the light as Leeroy’s hand slides down, thumb pressing into the tight ring of his hole before he pulls back, leaving Nicks’ breath sharp and his grip on the shirt knuckles white. No words, no hesitation, just the way Leeroy’s cock swells against the fabric, the way Sammy’s ass clenches when he turns his head, lips parted but silent. The only sound is the faint rasp of their shirts against each other, the kind of tension that doesn’t need to be spoken.
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