I Want You

Adrian Long and Angelo Marconi sprawl on a sun-warmed blanket, lost in their picnic idyll. They pluck juicy grapes, feeding each other bites that drip sweetness down chins. Laughter fades to hunger; mouths meet in a fierce kiss. Shirts slip off, baring bronzed torsos slick with afternoon sweat. Lips stay locked, tongues dancing, as pants follow—zippers rasp, fabric pools at ankles. Swollen cocks spring free, thick and insistent, begging for touch. Hands roam with urgent greed. Angelo drops to his knees, devouring Adrian's rigid salami, lips stretching wide around the pulsing shaft. Adrian's pecs flex tight, his washboard abs ripple with each thrust—he face-fucks his lover, raw exhilaration surging through him like fire. Angelo's handsome face flushes, eyes watering, but he takes it all, hungry and unyielding. Adrian flips the script, yanking Angelo's hips high. He dives in, tongue lashing the puckered hole, rimming deep with wicked laps. Fingers plunge next—two, then three, thumb twisting in—stretching that tight ring until it yields, slick and ready. Angelo bucks, gasping, his body a live wire. No more waiting. Angelo straddles Adrian, impaling himself on that hefty meatpole in one bold descent. They fuck like that, moans ripping free as Adrian pistons up, relentless, hips snapping in perfect rhythm. Sweat beads, muscles gleam. They shift—doggie now, Angelo arched and clawing the blanket while Adrian pounds from behind, balls slapping skin. Then Angelo sprawls on his back, legs splayed wide, Adrian driving faster, harder, the air thick with their grunts. Climax crashes over them. Neither holds back—cocks erupt in hot, shuddering bursts, wads spilling across taut bellies and heaving chests, sealing their bliss in sticky proof.