Rencher Spence dominates Sean Harding on the couch, his grip tight around the kneeling man’s hips as he drives into him with rough, unrelenting thrusts. The bearded man’s tattoos ripple with each movement, while Harding’s dark hair falls forward as he braces himself, his fingers digging into the cushions. Spence’s hands grip the back of the couch, anchoring himself for deeper strokes, his breath ragged against Harding’s neck as he works him open. The only sound is the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, the two of them locked in a relentless, unspoken rhythm.
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