Family Strokes
The humid evening air clung to her skin, a tangible memory of her exertion, as Kennedy guided Brad into the dim, quiet hallway, far from the distant roar of the television. Her hand, warm and insistent on his arm, communicated a silent plea that his own nervous pulse answered in a frantic rhythm. He stood frozen, a statue of conflicted duty, while she sank to her knees before him, her eyes holding his with a liquid intensity that stole his breath. Her fingers, trembling slightly, worked the fastening of his trousers with a deliberate, slow purpose that made his heart hammer against his ribs. The soft rustle of fabric yielding was the only sound in the charged silence, a secret shared in the encroaching shadows. She leaned forward, her warm breath a ghost of a caress against his skin, her lips parting in a whisper-soft kiss that was both a question and an answer. A low, helpless groan escaped him as he tangled his hands in her damp hair, his resolve dissolving under her tender, relentless attention. They moved as one entangled entity to the secluded staircase, where each shallow step became a throne for this forbidden intimacy. The worn wood of the stair felt cool and solid beneath her, a stark contrast to the fevered heat blooming between them. In that hidden space, every touch was a stolen poem, every sigh a confession, weaving a fragile, dangerous web of desire that threatened to unravel them both.
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