Handy Men

Evan Matthews finally gets what he’s chased for years: Matthieu Paris under his hands. The two of them lock eyes and the air crackles. Matthews drops to his knees, tongue dragging slow and wet over every curve of Paris’s body. Behind him Mason Garet spreads Matthews open, pushing slick fingers deeper until Matthews’ hole starts to give. Garet’s fist slides in, steady, relentless. Matthews keeps his focus; he greases his own fist and presses past Paris’s ring. Three bodies move together, a raw chain of sweat and stretch. They pivot. Paris plants his fist on the floor, Garet lowers himself onto it, riding deep. At the same time Garet’s free hand keeps working Matthews, twisting, pushing, never letting up. Matthews stays locked on Paris, eyes half-shut, mouth open, riding the pulse that runs through all three of them. The room smells like lube and skin. No one talks. They just push harder, farther, until every hole is full and every muscle shakes.