Nighthawken

Peter Sidow lay propped against pillows, his throat raw from the cold that gripped him. He sipped hot tea, the steam curling like a lover's breath, while a thermometer rested on his nightstand like a silent sentinel. The door creaked open, and Eric Kovac stepped in, his presence a welcome heat in the dim room. They talked in low murmurs, but soon words gave way to something rawer. Kovac's fingers threaded through Sidow's hair, guiding him down. Sidow's lips parted, taking Kovac's cock deep, the salty pulse of it chasing away the chill. A low groan escaped Kovac, his hips bucking gently. Then Sidow shifted, baring his hairy hole—inviting, unapologetic. Kovac's tongue traced the musky folds first, lapping with deliberate hunger, before his cock followed, sliding in with a slick, insistent thrust that filled the air with their shared rhythm.