Imagining Marcus

The silence around the pool is heavy now, broken only by the soft hum of the filter and the distant clatter of Marcus inside the house. Izzys hand moves again before she can stop it, slower this time, her fingers trailing up her stomach and over the damp white fabric of the bikini top. The thin material clings to her skin, nearly sheer, and when her thumb brushes across her nipple, she feels a sharp jolt run through her. Her breath hitches, and she presses her palm flat against the fabric, feeling the hard peak beneath her touch.

She doesn't pull away this time. Her fingers circle the nipple slowly, the wet cotton rubbing against it with every movement. Her hips shift on the lounger, and the wedged fabric between her labia presses deeper, sending a fresh wave of heat through her. She bites her lip, her eyes half-closed, her gaze still fixed on the back door. She imagines Marcus's hands on her instead of her own — the way he'd grabbed the bikini bottoms, the rough, confident pull of his fingers — and the thought makes her chest tighten.

Her other hand slides down, fingers brushing the waistband again. She doesn't push inside, just presses against the wet cotton where it's wedged, feeling the slickness of her own arousal through the fabric. The sensation makes her gasp, soft and breathy, and she presses her thighs together for a moment before letting them fall open again.

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