by Jane Davitt

Danny doesn't swim much. Paddles, yes, up to his knees sometimes if a wave gets frisky. When he gets used to warm water heaving with sharks, he'll take the plunge, but he's in no rush.

He gets his salt secondhand, dragging his tongue over Steve's damp body, lapping and sucking on a sea-soaked cock until all that he can taste is skin and spit. On the beach, with the stars hanging heavy and Steve's bitten-off murmurs lost in the beat of the surf, he gets as close as he wants to be to the ocean and even closer to Steve.

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