Tom Colt’s tattooed, muscular frame pins Christian Volt beneath him, his shaved head close enough to taste the salt on his neck as he works his mouth down. Volt grips the sheets, fingers digging into the fabric as Colt’s tongue traces the tight ring of his asshole before slipping inside. The bed creaks under their weight, the only sound the wet, rhythmic pull of lips and the sharp inhale of breath when fingers twist deep.
