Jean Franko’s bearded, tattooed frame towers over Ely Chaim’s lean, clean-shaven body as he pins him against the wall, their mouths locked in a rough, open-mouthed kiss. Ely’s fingers dig into Franko’s green shirt while he tugs at the denim straps of his overalls, the fabric straining over his muscles. The air hums with the weight of their bodies, the only sound the rasp of breath and the faint creak of denim as Franko’s grip tightens.
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