Playboy Morning Show - Episode 395

Kevin and Andrea swing open the double doors of their mini-mansion and Pete Holmes rolls up the driveway, his laughter already loud before the car door even shuts. Inside, the air smells like fresh flowers and something sharper, like gin on ice. They meet him in the kitchen, where Pete is already making himself at home, leaning against the marble, cracking jokes that hit soft and land hot. Andrea pours three glasses while Kevin watches the way Pete watches her—slow, appreciative, like he’s already undressing the conversation itself. The talk turns to his special, but the words wander. Pete describes a bit about bodies and shame, then stops to take a slow sip, eyes drifting from Andrea’s mouth to the low dip of her blouse. She leans in, fingers resting on his forearm as she laughs at a line that isn’t even that funny. Kevin’s thumb strokes the rim of his glass, feeling the tension roll out like warm honey between them. Conversation melts into movement. Andrea’s hand slips lower, tracing the line of Pete’s belt while Kevin steps behind her, lips brushing the back of her neck. Pete sets his glass down, eyes dark, voice low as he says something that makes her exhale through parted lips. Clothing shifts—Andrea’s skirt bunching as Kevin lifts it, Pete’s palm sliding up her thigh. Her breath hitches when both men touch her at once, one mouth on her collarbone, another tracing her ear. They move to the living room, a tangle of hands and mouths. Pete pulls Andrea onto his lap, her knees pressing into the couch cushions as Kevin kneels beside them, guiding her hips, murmuring filthy encouragement. She rocks forward, taking Pete deep, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp and wet. Kevin watches, eyes heavy, then steps in, pressing into her mouth while Pete fills her from below. The rhythm builds—slow, deliberate, then urgent. Andrea’s moans echo off the high ceilings, her body caught between them, slick and trembling. Sweat beads on skin. Pete’s hands grip her waist, Kevin’s fingers tangle in her hair. They fuck like they’ve known each other for years, every thrust and sigh choreographed by need. When she comes, it’s with both of them inside her, voices low and hoarse, the three of them falling into a heap on the wide, soft couch, breathing hard in the golden afternoon light.