Michael Boston’s thick arms coil around Luke Connors’ hips as he pins him to the couch, fingers digging into the smooth, dark hair at his nape while his own cock, long, heavy, veined, slams deep. Luke’s legs spread wider, his hole already glistening as Boston’s tongue flicks the tight ring, then pulls back just enough to let the blunt head of his cock press in. The second thrust splits him open, the couch creaking under their weight as Boston’s grip tightens, his own breath ragged against the curve of Luke’s ear.
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