Brian Bonds grips Manuel Skye’s hips as he drives into him hard, his own dark hair slick with sweat, the red tank top clinging to his chest. Skye arches back, his muscular frame straining against the outdoor foliage, fingers digging into Bonds’ shoulders while his mouth seals over the other’s neck. The air hums with the wet slap of flesh and the rough rasp of breath, their bodies locked in a relentless, open-air rhythm.
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