His hands stroked my thighs, my hips. Just the pleasure of touching. Gay porn Not the “fuck, Spaghetti Noodle. His hair was messy, like he’d been painting or pacing. I tasted his precum, sweet and warm, as I bobbed slowly, letting my tongue swirl and explore, teasing him the way he’d teased me. “Now let me feel your precious lips on me, Troy.”He stood, undid his shirt, pulled it off without taking his eyes off me. There was no rush to fuck. Just nodded. Not the 11 pings from the gym. Drifting.Then…ping.A voice note.From Dylan.I stared at the screen reading the live translation pop up.“You think Paris makes me forget what you sound like gagging on my cock?”“I know your mouth, Troy. He pulled me onto the couch, our shirts off, pants barely on. He met me at the door in a black button-down and barefoot.He took my coat, kissed both cheeks…French styleand handed me a glass of red wine. We didn’t rush. I sat in one of his t-shirts. “You taste like a desert, ma chérie,” he said, voice wrecked. His hands stroked my thighs, my hips. Something I am not used to with Dylan.His thighs trembled.
