Cristiano Cruzo stands behind Derek Caravaggio, gripping his hips as he drives deep inside, his dark hair framing the muscles of his back while the other bends forward, ass exposed and waiting. Their chests press together as Cruzo’s hands slide over Caravaggio’s smooth skin, fingers tracing the ridges of his abs before pulling him back for another hard thrust. The air hums with the wet sound of flesh meeting flesh, Cruzo’s grip tightening as he holds Caravaggio in place, each movement deliberate and unrelenting.
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