His chest heaves, his hand sliding up and down, stroking his hardness. I’d give anything right now to know what goes on in his head.
He doesn’t watch Francisco pounding into me.
He doesn’t need that image in his head, only touches himself, his hard length pointing up, chiseled, perfect.
I touch him to make him open his eyes and look at me.
Yes, he definitely hides something.
He doesn’t seem upset, frustrated, or impatient while waiting for his turn.
Things seemingly shift, and our dynamic changes and I wonder how things will be once we return to New York.