"Good boy," Quentin sighs, breathing and mouthing the praise into Corbin's skin. His mouth, his teeth, the slow roll of his hips. He fits his hand between them, holding his cock against the cleft of Corbin's ass and just fucking that neat track of flesh. No pressing in, nothing but filthy rutting.

If he were twenty years younger, it would have been very boyish of him. Instead, it's a tease. Almost forty, grinding up on some fourteen year old's ass, feeling how slick it is from him fingering him out.

"Goddamn," he sighed. "Glad you sent me that picture, sweetheart."