Devilsfilm
Kate Kennedy, Brad Newman, Rod Jackson Pic(s)
The sterile glow of her phone screen, cluttered with dating app notifications, was finally extinguished, replaced by the warm, intimate lighting of Brad Newman’s downtown loft and the far more compelling sight of him kneeling before her. His hands, strong and sure, slid up her thighs, pushing the fabric of her cocktail dress until it gathered at her waist, his thumbs tracing hypnotic circles on her inner skin as his eyes held hers with a raw, undisguised hunger. Just as his head began to dip, a shadow fell over them, and Kate gasped as Rod Jackson’s solid presence materialized behind the plush sofa, his hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders, his touch both possessive and calming. “Seems you’ve found more than you were looking for,” Rod murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration agat her ear as Brad’s mouth, undeterred, found the delicate lace of her panties, his warm breath searing through the fabric. Brad’s tongue began a slow, torturous press agat her core, each stroke a deliberate promise of the digital fantasies she’d scroll past now made devastatingly real, while Rod’s fingers trailed down, slipping under the straps of her dress to peel it from her body. Exposed to the cool air and their twin gazes, Kate arched back agat Rod’s chest, her head spinning as Brad hooked his fingers in her waistband and drew her last garment down, his mouth returning to her now-bare flesh with a low groan of approval. Rod’s hands found her breasts, kneading and shaping them, his thumbs abrading her nipples into tight, aching points as Brad’s tongue delved deeper, exploring her with an intimate precision that made her fingers clutch at Rod’s arms. This was the connection the apps could never engineer—the feeling of Brad’s stubble agat her tender inner thighs, the sound of Rod’s whispered praise in her ear, the overwhelming sensation of being utterly filled and worshipped by two men who were in no rush whatsoever. The coil of pleasure tightened with every flick of Brad’s tongue and every roll of Rod’s fingers, a dual assault on her senses that shattered the lonely echo of her apartment, replacing it with a symphony of ragged breaths and shared, slick sounds. When her climax ripped through her, it was with a force that stole her voice, her body bowing between them, a silent, screaming testament to the fact that love in the digital age was sometimes best found by logging off and getting lost in the perfect, primal harmony of two.
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