Gibbs And Abby Novels & Stories

“I just went…twenty minutes ago, at the last gas station we passed.” “Where’s Max? And Gabe?” “In the car. Max thought it best if we iron out our issues first.” “Bleh. Issues. Are we suddenly on The Jerry Springer Show? And what’s with you not hugging your friend?” Abby battled the sudden onslaught of tears as she embraced Lizzy against her burgeoning stomach. After clinging like limpets, they both sat on the sofa and maneuvered awkwardly into comfortable positions. Abby collapsed back with a groan and Lizzy shifted sideways with an injured hand waving in the air.

I let my hands wander over her body for a moment and felt every curve of hers from her neck to her knees, slowing down for a moment around her ass to admire it a little. Abby pulled away for a moment just enough to look at me with a mischievous smile, “I wanna try something,” she said as she attempted to catch her breath. I looked at her in question and she bit her lip and raised her eyebrows before bringing her left hand up and snapping her fingers. She used my trick. She giggled with glee when both of our clothes disappeared and I could no longer hold in my demon’s needs and jumped on top of her. Abby squealed but her smile didn’t falter and we both chuckled between our kisses.

Lisa said and Abby stifled a laugh. “I'm looking for a couple things on the list but I can't find them.” Within minutes, both ladies had buddied up and were in high spirits like they had been best friends the entire time. Half an hour later and Lisa bids Abby goodbye. The drive home was comforting and silent— the radio turned off and the only thing audible was the gentle rumbling of the engine. When Abby returned home, she found Sarah helping Mindy in the kitchen. “I was starting to wondering if you got lost or something, where have you been?” Mindy asked as she diced up some onions and threw them into a pot.

Hannah was sprawled across the living room sofa, one leg hanging over the armrest, blond hair a mess, oversized gray hoodie swallowing her frame, her face wearing the expression of a woman who had survived a natural disaster and decided to become furniture afterward. I stood in the doorway. Abby stopped right in front of the Persian rug in the foyer, slowly turned toward me, then lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose. “Mami,” she said, in the tone of someone greeting a late guest at an awards ceremony she had personally sponsored. “Finally, you’re here.” I frowned. “Sorry, did I just walk into my own house or an audition for a royal-family reality show?” Abby ignored that with grace.