Sex Shooters

David Griffin pins Jeremy Foxx against the cool tile wall, his hands gripping firm hips as steam rises from the running shower. Jeremy's breath hitches, body arching into the touch, water slicking their skin like liquid silk. Gino Amatti watches from the doorway, hidden in shadow, his pulse quickening at the sight—Jean's jeans straining against his growing arousal. David thrusts deep, claiming Jeremy with rhythmic power, each plunge drawing moans that echo off the porcelain. Jeremy's fingers claw the wall, chasing ecstasy, while Gino's hand slips inside his waistband, stroking in secret sync to the raw rhythm. No matter the angle—plunging in or peeking out—bathroom heat ignites the blood, turning steam into fire.