Dick Fisk grips the handlebars of a bike, his muscles straining under cycling shorts, while Rod Phillips leans in to press his mouth against his neck, then they’re both bare, tangled in hay with Leo Ford’s tattooed chest pressed flush against Pete Gable’s, their hands roaming over sweat-slicked skin. The group shifts between kisses and rough embraces, fingers digging into shoulders as they strip away the last of their gear, leaving only the weight of bodies and the sharp scent of leather and sweat.
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