Alone

She stays on the lounger, the wet white bikini still clinging to her skin, the fabric of the bottoms still wedged between her labia. The evening air has cooled further, raising goosebumps across her thighs, but she doesn't move. Her eyes are fixed on the back door Marcus disappeared through, on the faint glow of the kitchen light spilling through the screen."

She replays the moment over and over. The weight of his hand on her head. The low, even tone of his voice when he said those two words. The way her chest had tightened, warm and fluttering, like being praised by him was something she needed more of. And beneath that, the sharper memory of him walking toward her, the unmistakable bulge straining against his sweatpants, the weight of his gaze tracing every curve of her body.

Her breathing has quickened without her noticing. She's still lying there, knees slightly bent, the wet fabric a constant pressure against her sensitive flesh. Her hand, resting on her stomach, begins to move. It drifts downward, slow and absent, as if following some instinct she hasn't consciously acknowledged.

Her fingers brush the waistband of the bikini bottoms. She doesn't pull the fabric aside, doesn't adjust it. Her fingertips slide lower, tracing the damp cotton where it's pressed between her folds. The touch sends a jolt through her, sharp and electric, and she lets out a small, breathy sound she doesn't recognize as her own.

She pulls her hand away, suddenly aware of where it's gone. Her cheeks flush, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looks down at her own fingers, then toward the house, then back at the pool. The water is still, the light fading.

She doesn't know what to do with the heat coiling in her belly. She only knows she's not ready to stand up and leave it behind.

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