Whats going on

Her nipples are already hard, damp from the air and from her own touch, and the evening breeze against her exposed skin makes her shiver. The bikini top is bunched beneath her breasts, and she doesn't bother to fix it. Her other hand stays pressed against the wedged fabric of her bottoms, the wet cotton still deep between her labia.

She begins to rub, slow at first, the fabric shifting against her slick flesh with every pass of her palm. The friction sends sparks through her, making her breath catch. She presses harder, her hips lifting to meet her own hand, the rhythm quickening without her deciding it. The wet sound of her rubbing fills the quiet yard, soft and rhythmic, mingling with the hum of the pool filter.

Her fingers curl against the fabric, pressing it deeper into her, and she lets out a low, trembling moan. She rolls her hips in time with her hand, faster now, chasing the heat coiling low in her belly. She thinks about Joe, about his texts, about the way 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 echoing behind her eyes.

She arches her back, her toes curling against the lounger, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pool water still laps against the edge, indifferent. She rubs faster, her fingers pressing harder, the fabric shifting against her clit with every motion, and she lets herself fall into it.

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