Mountain wandering

I roam the mountains whenever I can spare the hours. The air bites clean, the trails stretch me thin, and that quiet under the trees feels earned. Shade chills my skin, so I always hunt for open light to rest and let my muscles ease. Sometimes the urge rises right there. I peel my shirt, slip out of my jeans, and spread across the warm rock. Fingers trace the soft rise of my breasts, the tight peaks already stiff from the breeze. I part my legs, cup the heat between them, and rub slow circles until the ache turns slick and my breathing slips ragged. Every moan drifts into the pines; no one hears but the birds.