Bart Cuban’s broad chest presses against Helmut Huxley’s as he grips his hips, fingers digging into the taut muscle of his thighs while their mouths crash together. Helmut’s head tilts back, throat exposed as Bart’s tongue forces its way past lips, the sound of wet suction cutting through the air near the water’s edge. Their bodies move in tight, desperate circles, hands sliding over sweat-slicked skin, one gripping a firm ass while the other traces a line down a flat stomach to the dark hair between legs. The water ripples behind them as Helmut’s breath hitches, his fingers tangling in Bart’s dark hair, pulling just enough to deepen the kiss.
