Greg Centuri’s broad chest presses into the couch as Jonathan Darko kneels between his thighs, his fingers working the tight hole while Greg’s cock throbs in his grip. Dark hair frames their sweat-slicked skin, muscles straining as Darko takes him deep, his own hand pumping hard against the wall. The air fills with the wet sounds of lips, fingers, and the rough slide of skin, no restraint, just need.
