Completely alone

She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her hand is still pressed against the wedged fabric of her bikini bottoms, her other palm flat over her nipple, the wet cotton clinging to her skin. The heat between her legs hasn't faded—it's only grown, pooling low and insistent with every passing second.

She rolls onto her side first, pulling her knees up, but the position only presses the fabric deeper. She shifts onto her back again, staring up at the darkening sky. The first few stars are pricking through the indigo. The pool filter hums, steady and indifferent.

Her fingers find the edge of the bikini top. She doesn't think about it. She just hooks the fabric down, pulling it below her breast, letting the damp cotton fall away from her skin. The cool evening air hits her nipple directly, and she inhales sharply. She repeats the motion on the other side, baring both breasts to the open air, the white fabric bunched beneath them.

She pinches her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, rolling it slowly. The sensation spikes through her chest, sharp and electric, and she lets out a low, unsteady moan. Her other hand stays pressed against the wet fabric between her thighs, feeling her own slickness seeping through. She grinds her palm against it, the fabric shifting against her sensitive flesh, and she bites her lip to keep quiet.

She's completely alone out here. The yard is fenced. The house is dark. And she's lying on a lounger, topless, wet, one hand pinching her own nipple, the other pressed between her legs. She thinks about Joe, about his texts, about how he said he'd lose his mind. She thinks about Marcus, about the weight of his hand on her head, the word good girl still ringing in her ears.

She arches her back, pressing her hips up against her own hand, and lets the heat coil tighter.

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