Heat

Heat. Summer wraps around her like silk. The Caribbean sun beats down, thick and heavy, making the air shimmer. She stands alone, blonde hair catching the light, skin already slick with warmth. Her fingers tug at her clothes, slow at first, then with purpose. Fabric slips from her shoulders, baring the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist. She doesn't rush. The heat is inside her now, building low in her belly. The brunette in the mirror watches her with the same hunger. She moves closer, hips swaying, and the last of her clothes fall away. Nothing left between her and the open air. Her hand drifts down, fingertips brushing the soft skin of her stomach, then lower. She spreads her legs just enough, finds the heat between them already slick. One finger circles, teasing, before she presses in. Her breath catches. She gives in to it. Slow strokes at first, then deeper, faster, until her thighs tremble and her free hand grips the edge of the table for balance. Every movement sends a fresh wave of pleasure through her. She bites her lip, eyes half-closed, lost in the rhythm she sets. The room fills with the soft sound of her breathing, the wet slide of her fingers, the low moan that slips out when she finds the perfect angle. Her hips roll against her own touch. The tension coils tighter, sharper, until it breaks. Her body arches, a gasp tearing from her throat, pleasure rolling through her in waves. She stays there for a moment, fingers still inside herself, feeling the last pulses fade. Then she opens her eyes, flushed and satisfied, the heat of the island and her own desire still burning under her skin.