Darin Silvers, his neck tattooed in bold ink, presses Brett Lake against the couch while feeding him bites of something warm and greasy, his fingers slick with oil as they linger on the other man’s lips. Brett, his arms flexed with muscle, grips the food with one hand while Silvers traces the tattooed lines of his chest with the other, his breath hot against the skin. They sit close on the bed next, Brett’s fingers working into himself while Silvers watches, the couch forgotten for the slow, deliberate touch of a meal turned intimate.
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