The air in the makeup room crackled with a new kind of electricity the moment Dex Devall and Trevor Brooks locked eyes. Dex, that impossibly handsome devil, had been rehearsing his lines with intense focus, but his ambition shifted gears entirely when his agent, the sharp and successful Trevor Brooks, walked through the door. The professional atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a thick, palpable heat. You could see the genuine thrill on Dex’s face, the sheer gratitude for the man who made his career, but it quickly morphed into something bolder, something hungry.
Leaning in, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate whisper, Dex Devall made an offer that was anything but professional. He didn’t propose a dinner to say thanks or a gift to show his appreciation. No, he offered his body, his very self, telling Trevor it was the only form of gratitude that felt truly right. The surprise on Trevor Brooks’s face was instantaneous, but it melted away into pure, unadulterated desire. He didn’t need to be asked twice. In one fluid motion, he closed the distance, his hands claiming Dex’s waist, pulling him close until their bodies aligned. This wasn’t a slow burn; this was a five-alarm fire igniting between them.
Clothes became a forgotten obstacle, conquered and discarded in a feverish rush. Then, Dex Devall was on his knees right there on the industrial carpet, his gratitude taking a very eager, very physical form. He worked with a single-minded dedication that spoke volumes, each movement a testament to his need to please. Above him, Trevor Brooks let his head fall back, a low groan escaping his lips as his hand tangled in Dex’s hair, guiding the rhythm, completely owning the moment. They moved together against a counter, the cold surface a stark contrast to their burning skin, a tangle of muscle and raw passion. This was the kind of reward money couldn’t buy—a powerful, submissive, and utterly explosive release, and you have a front-row seat to every breathtaking second of it.
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