Ty Santana’s tattooed arms grip Michael Boston’s hips as he slams into him, the dark hair on his chest pressed against Boston’s smooth, corded back, each thrust driving them both deeper into the mattress. Boston’s ass clenches around him, the muscles rippling with every hard fuck, his fingers digging into the sheets as Santana’s weight pins him down. The air fills with the wet sound of skin slapping skin, the only light catching the sweat glistening on Boston’s back and the veins standing out on Santana’s forearms.
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