The Perfect Excuse

Holly spots Gia out on the lawn, shears in hand, dirt under her nails. "C'mon in, take five," she calls through the open window. Gia wipes her palms on her jeans and steps inside, boots tracking grass clippings across the marble. They talk about roses at first, weather next. Holly keeps edging closer on the couch, legs crossed high, the hem of her sundress sliding up her thigh. Gia leans in to brush a stray petal off Holly's collarbone and her knuckles linger. Their voices drop. Holly's laugh turns husky. The distance between them vanishes. They kiss like they've been holding back for weeks. Holly bites Gia's lower lip, pulls back just enough to whisper the truth. "My husband thinks you're the gardener," she says. "He has no clue you're the reason I can't stop touching myself in the afternoon." Gia grins against her mouth. Holly climbs onto her lap, blonde hair falling forward, big tits pressing tight against Gia's small ones. Hands slip under shirts, under skirts. Holly grinds down, slow and greedy. Gia's fingers find her wet and waiting. They fuck right there on the couch, greedy, quiet, the garden shears still resting on the coffee table like nothing ever happened.