Dirty Dreaming

In the dim hush of the restroom, Cliff Parker locks eyes with Scott Miller across the tiled expanse. No words pass between them—just a nod, electric and urgent. Scott drops to his knees first, his fingers deftly unzipping Cliff's fly, freeing the thickening cock that springs forth, insistent. He takes it in, lips sealing around the head, tongue swirling with practiced hunger. Cliff's hand fists in Scott's hair, guiding the rhythm as Scott sucks deep, hollowing his cheeks, drawing out low groans that echo off the walls. Cliff pulls back, breath ragged, and hauls Scott up. He spins him around, bending him over the sink. Scott's pants pool at his ankles, ass presented like an invitation too tempting to refuse. Cliff kneels now, parting those firm cheeks with strong hands, and dives in—his tongue tracing the tight ring, lapping and probing with slick insistence. Scott gasps, pushing back, the wet heat building a fire that makes him tremble. Enough teasing. Cliff rises, slicking his cock with spit, and presses the blunt tip against Scott's entrance. He thrusts in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one fierce stroke. Scott's moan bounces sharp off the mirrors. Cliff grips his hips, pounding relentlessly from behind—each slap of skin on skin a punctuation to their raw need, bodies locked in a frantic, sweat-slicked dance until release crashes over them both.