Hot Ticket

Michael Chads circles Rob Cryston in the dim-lit room, muscles coiled like a predator's promise. Their eyes lock, heavy with unspoken hunger. Rob advances first, his hands rough and sure, gripping Michael's shoulders, pulling him close. Lips crash together in a fierce kiss, tongues battling for dominance. Michael's fingers trace down Rob's chest, nails scraping lightly, drawing a low growl from deep in Rob's throat. Clothes shed in hurried tugs—shirts flung aside, pants kicked off. Naked now, they press skin to skin. Michael's cock hardens against Rob's thigh, throbbing with need. Rob's hand wraps around it, stroking firm and slow, thumb circling the slick tip. Michael gasps, hips bucking forward. They tumble to the bed. Rob pins Michael down, his mouth trailing fire along Michael's neck, biting just enough to mark. Michael's legs part, inviting. Rob's fingers probe, slick with spit, stretching him open—one, then two, curling to hit that spot that makes Michael arch and moan. 'Fuck, yes,' Michael breathes, voice raw. Rob positions himself, the head of his thick cock pressing against Michael's entrance. He pushes in, inch by relentless inch, filling him completely. Michael clenches around him, a velvet vice. They move together, rhythm building—hard thrusts, sweat-slicked bodies slapping. Rob's hand pumps Michael's shaft in time, edging him closer. Climax hits like a storm. Michael comes first, spilling hot over Rob's fist, cries echoing. Rob follows, burying deep, pulsing inside as waves crash through him. They collapse, tangled and spent, breaths mingling in the afterglow.