Under the palm trees

Sun bakes the sand. She slips under the palms, but shade does nothing for the heat. Her fingers hook the bikini strings, and the little triangles fall away. She stands naked, letting the air kiss her skin. One hand drifts down, finds the soft heat between her thighs. She strokes slow circles, eyes half-closed, breath growing heavier. A quick glance around, then her touch turns firmer, wetter. Her nipples tighten. She bites her lip. The palm fronds rattle above, but the only sound that matters is the quiet, slick rhythm of her fingers working between parted legs.