Gezza was in the living room of Linda Maci, where his sneakers were melting in the thick carpet, the air smelled of honey and a slight tincture of baked cookies.
The weight of his backpack was painful and the warmth of Playbook was radiating through the canvas.
Linda turned to him with her auburn hair floating down her back, her green eyes were glimpsed of shy eagerness, and her face flushed all the way up to her freckles.
Gezza Luster over her body, her sweater was clinging to her shapes, jeans were tight.
Fuck, she's hot. And the Playbook got her good. His cheek ached with the punch of Mike, and he grinned and his heart beat high.
Nice place, he said, in a low voice, going nearer, sneakers scuffing. "You, uh, home alone?" His fingers trembled and touched his hoodie ragged hem as his eyes were fixed on her lips.
Her breath came in, and Linda twisted her hands in her apron, her joints whitening.
"My husband is up-stairs", she spoke in a soft, loving, trembling voice, her eyes flying to the staircase. Then she bit her lip, and her eyes flicked, and she gave way, leaning towards him.
She's fighting it. Book's stronger. The tightness of Gezza in his jeans was aggravated by the heat of the Playbook, pushing him.
He smiled and leaned closer, causing his breath to brush her ear.
"Sure he is a bore, compared to you". His fingers went over her arm, and her skin was warm in the sweater, making his spine shiver.
The eyes of Linda grew dark, her blush grew, her body leaned nearer, apron rustled. She got restless, fingers pulling out a strand of hair, her chest lifting quicker.
"What's with the box?" asked, with faltering voice, looking at the porch where it was so desolately vacuated, curling the tape.
Her words were swallowed by her hungry eyes which were thinking of him.
Gezza indicated his greasy hair, scratching it as he pulled at the strap of his bagpack.
"Just a mix-up. Don't worry about it." Keep her focused on me. He looked around, skidding the sneakers over the hardwood floor on their way to the kitchen. "Got anything to drink?"
Linda nodded, and moved jerkily, like a puppet at the end of its strings. "Sure, in the fridge." Turning, hip swinging, jeans tight to her curves, she took him to the kitchen.
Air changed, it was colder, smelled of dish soap and lemon. She opened the refrigerator, whose hum could be heard clearly, humping back, her sweater hitching up, leaving a strip of bare flesh behind.
Heart racing, Gezza followed, Playbook burning his back. Now's my shot. He moved round her back, and touched her waist, and his fingers moved under her sweater, and he felt warm, soft flesh.
Gasped Linda, tensed, melted, her hips rubbing against his. Fuck, she's into it. His fingers followed downward, under the waist of her jeans, and discovered her warmth, and caressed sluggishly.
She was shaking her thighs, and her hands knuckled on the handle of the fridge.
"My husband", she said in whisper.
Her words had been a warning, but her body moved into his hand, her breath caught and a moan came out. Book's winning. She's mine.
And he smiled, his fingers moving more, and her slickness wetting them. Her hands were set against the kitchen island, which was marble and cold under her hands, her apron fell to the ground.
Bun undresses fell down her shoulders, her auburn hair, her green eyes narrowed half, her lips open. Mike's mom, begging for me. Sweet revenge.
Footsteps thudded upstairs. "Linda? Who was at the door?" A low voice was heard, ponderous footsteps falling.
Gezza felt his heart rise and was paralyzed. Shit, her husband. Sneakers on his heels, cowering behind the counter, he felt the heat of the Playbook burning his bag.
Linda smoothed her sweater, her breath came in raggedly.
"Just a delivery guy.. he went already.", she lied, and her voice was strained, and her fingers were clinging to the edge of the island.
Gezza grinned and crawled even closer, lips touching the inner part of her thigh, against the jeans still, and then higher, his tongue rubbing on her warmth against her jeans.
Linda jerked, a sharp gasp escaped, her knees knelt a little.
"You alright?" his husband, speaking nearer, his feet knocking on the hardboard.
The tongue of Gezza has a slow and painful movement, her odor intoxicating, her flesh shuddering to his hand. Keep talking, asshole. She's mine.
"Oh, I stumbled, I just--ah--stubbed my toe," Linda moaned, squeaking and giving a low moan as the tongue of Gezza pushed deeper into her thighs and she trembled.
Her nails were scraping marble, her hands clenched on the counter, her face was flushed, her eyes darted.
Footsteps retrahed and the husband grunted. "Alright, I'm heading back up." The stairs creaked, fading. The breath of Linda caught and her body sank against the island her moan was more unrestrained.
Gezza scrambled out wiping his mouth, his grin smug.
He stood with his sneakers squeaking, his bag of the Playbook throbbing in his bag and tight jeans.
He was staring at Linda, with her green eyes, bashful yet flushed, her auburn hair messy, her sweater crooked. Time for the real fun.
He came nearer, with his hands prepared, his heart thrilling with success.