Marie reached up, and her fingers touched the top shelf, and the movement of the thighs lifted the skirt another inch, with flashing smooth thighs in the warm light of the bulb.
His eyes were fixed on Gezza, and his bulge was hotter, and an oily mist was floating his mind--write it now, make her open her legs.
But the indecisiveness stuck, a little tiny crack of his chest, his hand gripping midway in a vacuum.
She used a huge tome, whose black leather cover had split and worn, and was stamped with marks resembling the runes of the Playbook, and the dust puffed out at the air like a cloud of gray smoke as it fell violently open.
She moved it on herself, and sank into the chair opposite Gezza, making a soft creak of wood, the tome on her lap.
His eyes remained riveted to her thighs, which were separated a little by the book, the stuff struggling.
