Andre Boleyn grips Kevin Warhol’s hips while his tongue drags deep into his throat, fingers digging into the taut muscles of his ass. Benoit Ulliel watches, his tattooed arms braced beside them, mouth open as he leans in to lick the sweat from Warhol’s collarbone. The bed creaks under their weight, the close-up framing the way Boleyn’s grip tightens just before he pulls back, lips glistening with spit.
