Geordie Jackson’s tattooed frame leans over Manuel Skye, his mouth crushing down on the other man’s as fingers dig into the railing, while Benjamin Gomez kneels behind, his calloused hands already working the slick heat between Skye’s thighs. The slim one’s hole clenches around the first probing digit, his dark hair falling forward as Jackson’s tongue drags rough over Skye’s jaw. Outside, the porch light cuts through the shadows, but the real dark is where Gomez’s fingers slip deeper, pulling a choked gasp from Skye’s throat.
