Angel Rivera grips Troye Dean’s hips hard while he drives into his ass from behind, the countertop creaking under their weight as Dean’s fingers dig into the edge. Rivera’s tattoos peek from his rolled-up sleeves, his grip bruising as he slams deeper, while Dean’s smooth, dark hair sways with each thrust. Their bodies press flush against the stools, hands tangled, one gripping a wrist, the other yanking at a hip, before Rivera’s fingers slide between them, rough and deliberate. The countertop stays silent, but the air hums with the wet sound of skin and the sharp inhale of breath.
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