Sex Shooters II

Ted Matthews, all rippling muscle and quiet power, spots the brawl in the dim alley—thugs circling Sean Carrera like wolves on a fresh kill. Sean fights back fierce, but he's outnumbered, blood streaking his jaw. Ted charges in, fists flying, scattering the pack with brutal efficiency. He scoops Sean up, half-carrying him to his sleek loft downtown, the city lights blurring past. Inside, under the soft glow of a single lamp, Ted eases Sean onto the leather couch. 'Let me clean you up,' he murmurs, voice low and steady. Warm water and a cloth trace Sean's split lip, the cut above his eye. Sean's breath hitches as Ted's strong hands work gently, wiping away the grime, exposing smooth skin beneath. The air thickens, charged. Ted fetches the razor, foam, and mirror. He tilts Sean's chin, eyes locking—dark, hungry. The blade glides smooth over Sean's jaw, shaving away the stubble in precise strokes. Sean's pulse races under Ted's fingers, the intimacy electric. A slip of the hand, deliberate or not, brushes Sean's thigh, and Sean groans soft, pulling Ted closer. They tumble to the floor, clothes shedding like secrets. Ted's mouth finds Sean's cock, hard and throbbing, while Sean claims Ted's in return—sixty-nining in a tangle of limbs and heat. Tongues swirl, lips suck deep, the rhythm building fierce. Ted's muscles tense, Sean's hips buck wild. Pleasure coils tight, then snaps. Ted erupts first, hot spurts flooding Sean's throat; Sean follows, pulsing release into Ted's eager mouth. They collapse, spent, breaths mingling in the afterglow.