DeAngelo Jackson towers over Zak Bishop, his dark hair and inked arms framing the grip he uses to hold Zak’s hips while his mouth works the other man’s cock. Zak kneels on the couch, his light hair falling forward as DeAngelo’s fingers probe deep inside him, his own lips wrapped tight around the thick shaft. The only sound is the wet slap of flesh against flesh, the rough rhythm of a man who doesn’t just fuck, he pounds.
