Dean Young’s tattooed arms flex as he grips Pol Prince’s hips, fingers digging into the lean muscle while Pol’s head dips low, his tongue already tracing the thick vein pulsing at Dean’s throat. The ocean crashes behind them, but neither man notices; all that matters is the way Dean’s grip tightens when Pol’s teeth graze the sensitive skin just above his collarbone. A selfie flash freezes the moment between them, two bodies locked in a rhythm that doesn’t need words.
