Linda's hand stayed wrapped around the base of his cock, warm and slick, pumping in steady strokes while her lips sealed over the tip. She sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, a low moan vibrating around him every time her tongue flicked the slit. Gezza snatched the last cookie from the tray, the challenge he'd set for himself, no one else, and bit down. Chocolate melted across his tongue as he looked down: auburn hair spilling loose, green eyes watering but fixed on him, her mouth stretched wide and glistening. Nothing in the world beat that view.

He rose from the stool; the legs scraped the tile with a sharp screech. One hand tangled in her hair, fingers threading through the unraveling bun. He rocked his hips slow, deliberate, feeding himself deeper. Linda gagged softly, a wet choke that sent a jolt straight to his balls, but her hands settled on his thighs, not pushing, just holding, nails digging crescents into his skin. Saliva spilled over her chin, dripping onto the apron bunched at her waist. She kept stroking what her mouth couldn't take, matching his rhythm, moaning around every thrust like she couldn't get enough.

Gezza's grip tightened in her hair, knuckles white, hips snapping faster. "Argh, yesss—" he groaned, cock twitching hard against her tongue. Each thrust nudged the soft back of her palate, her throat fluttering around the head. Linda's body jerked with the force, a muffled whimper vibrating up his shaft.

He buried himself to the root, balls pressed to her chin, and came—thick pulses flooding her mouth. She swallowed reflexively, throat working, gulping every spurt until he was spent. When he eased out, his cock slipped free slick and shining, a final strand of cum dangling from the tip.

Linda gasped, chest heaving, then opened wide—tongue out, pink and wet. Gezza tapped the head against it, letting the last drops spill across her tongue in slow, deliberate drips. She held still, eyes locked on his, until nothing remained but the shine of saliva and the faint taste of chocolate still on his skin.

Gezza's cock jutted stiff and slick, undaunted after two loads. Linda rose, apron dangling loose at her hips, and tugged him by the wrist. "Upstairs," she breathed, voice shaky with want.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, snagged his bag (Playbook tucked safe inside), then followed. Her bedroom door stood ajar; clean cotton and lavender hung in the air, bedspread crisp, pillows plumped. She walked backward, fingers laced with his, until the mattress caught the backs of her knees. They toppled together, her on the bottom, him sprawled atop her. His cheek sank into the warm, damp valley between her breasts, skin flushed and flour-smudged.

He lifted his head; their eyes locked (hers dark, shy, hungry). She cupped his nape, drew him down. Their lips crashed together, no softness now, just raw need. Gezza's tongue plunged into her mouth, claiming, tasting the lingering sweetness of cookies and the salt of his own release. Linda moaned into him, the sound vibrating against his teeth, her fingers digging into his scalp, pulling him deeper.

She arched up, breasts pressing hard against his chest, nipples stiff through the thin lace still bunched beneath them. Her tongue fought his, slick and desperate, twisting, sucking, biting his lower lip until he growled. Saliva spilled between them, messy, hot, neither caring. Her breath came in sharp gasps against his mouth; his hands slid to her jaw, holding her still so he could devour her, tongue stroking the roof of her mouth, the sensitive spot behind her teeth.

She whimpered, legs parting instinctively beneath him, hips rolling up to grind against the rigid line of his cock. The kiss turned feral: teeth clashing, lips swollen, air shared in ragged bursts. When they finally broke, it was only for a second, foreheads pressed, panting, before diving back in, hungrier than before.

Gezza broke the kiss with a wet gasp, hand dropping to grip his cock. He dragged the slick head along her entrance, parting swollen folds, teasing her clit until her hips bucked. Linda moaned, thighs trembling, chasing the pressure. "Please," she whispered, voice cracking.

He froze. She lifted her head, brows knit. "What's wrong?"

Gezza slid down the bed, snagged his bag, and fished out the camera. "Not a condom," he said, grin sharp. "Just want to remember this."

He crawled back, lens already rolling, red light blinking. Linda flung an arm over her eyes, cheeks blazing. Gezza nudged her thighs wider, settled between them, and rubbed his tip through her again—slow circles, then a sudden, brutal thrust.

Her back bowed off the mattress; teeth sank into her lip, but the moan tore free anyway. "It hit my womb," she gasped, walls fluttering around him. Gezza felt the tight ring at her deepest point kiss his crown, and he held still, savoring the clutch, camera steady in one hand.

Gezza didn't ease in. He pulled back and slammed home, hips pistoning, each thrust a brutal jolt that snapped her body up the mattress. The headboard cracked against the wall in a relentless thud-thud-thud, matching the wet slap of skin on skin.

One hand splayed low on her belly, feeling the ridge of his cock bulge beneath her skin with every plunge. Through the camera's lens he watched her face: eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream that finally broke into raw, rising moans. His other thumb found her clit, circling hard, fast, merciless.

Linda's arm fell away from her eyes. Fingers clawed the sheets, twisted, found nothing, then raked down her own thighs, nails leaving pink trails. Her back arched higher, breasts bouncing with every impact, nipples tight and dark.

The room filled with it: her cries climbing, the headboard's battering ram, the slick squelch of him driving into her. Sweat poured off Gezza's chest, dripping onto her stomach, mixing with the sheen already glazing her skin. He felt the burn in his thighs, the coil in his spine, but didn't slow; just fucked harder, chasing the way her walls fluttered, the way her voice cracked on his name.

Gezza's hand slid from her clit, slick with her, and hooked behind her knee. He rolled her onto her side in one smooth motion, hoisted that leg high over his shoulder, and drove back in. The new angle sank him deeper; Linda's moan cracked into a sharp cry, face twisting (eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack with raw lust and helpless satisfaction).

He kept the camera steady, lens catching every shudder: the flex of her thigh against his chest, the way her breasts rocked sideways with each punishing thrust. Sweat dripped from his brow onto the sheet. He groaned low, hips snapping, the wet slap of their bodies louder now, her walls gripping tighter around the shifted angle.

Gezza's cock twitched hard inside her, a warning pulse. "Fuck… argh—" he growled, hips stuttering. He yanked out just in time, breath ragged, and collapsed beside her. The bed groaned under his weight.

Linda's leg still draped over his hip; he wedged his slick length between her thighs, clamping them shut with a rough hand. A few frantic jerks and he came, hot ropes streaking across the sheets, some splattering her skin. He shuddered through it, forehead pressed to her shoulder, the camera forgotten on the nightstand, red light still blinking.

Gezza's chest heaved, slick with sweat, the air thick with sex and lavender. Linda lay limp beside him, one leg still hooked over his hip, her thighs trembling from the aftershocks. Cum cooled in sticky streaks across the sheets and her skin; she didn't move to wipe it away. The camera's red eye blinked on the nightstand, forgotten.

He rolled onto his back, cock softening against his stomach. The headboard had left a faint dent in the wall (evidence). Linda's fingers found his, lacing loosely, her pulse still racing under freckled skin. A shy laugh escaped her, breathless and disbelieving. "You enjoyed the cookies," she whispered.

Gezza grinned, turned his head to watch her auburn hair spill across the pillow like spilled wine. The Playbook's hum faded from his veins, leaving only the ache of spent muscle and the warmth of her body curled into his side. He pressed a lazy kiss to her temple, tasting salt. "Worth every crumb."

Gezza's grin faded the second the afterglow thinned. Linda's fingers were still tangled in his, her breathing soft and even, but something cold crawled up his spine. The Playbook buzzed, like bees stucked in his head.

What the hell his this? he grabbed temple. Stupid Book.

He'd left it in the bag downstairs

He slid his hand free, sat up. The sheet clung to his thighs, sticky with sweat and cum. Linda stirred, eyes fluttering open behind the messy curtain of auburn. "Where you going?" she mumbled, voice thick.

"Bathroom," he lied. He snatched his boxers off the floor, yanked them on. The camera's red light still blinked on the nightstand—fuck—he killed it with a thumb.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like warm sugar and sex. His bag sat where he'd dropped it by the island. He unzipped it fast. The Playbook lay on top, leather warm, pages glowing faintly like embers under skin. A new line shimmered across the open spread:

"Third taste. Third toll."

Gezza's stomach dropped. He slammed it shut. The glow died.

Behind him, bare feet padded on tile. Linda leaned in the doorway, apron gone, wearing one of his old hoodies now—too big, sleeves past her knuckles. Her thighs were still flushed, marked with faint fingerprints. "You okay?" she asked, soft.

"Yeah," he said, too quick. "Just—grabbing water."

She tilted her head, eyes sharp behind the shyness. "You're shaking."

He wasn't. Not yet.

Linda's gaze flicked to the screen, then back to him. "Everything good?"

Gezza swallowed. The Playbook pulsed once in the bag, like a heartbeat.

"Fine," he said. "Just… gotta run."

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