Take me to the water

They book the yacht every weekend like clockwork. Once the harbor fades behind them, the suits come off fast. Two blondes in striped triangles lean in, tongues tracing collarbones, fingers sliding past waistbands. Salty air sticks to their skin while the engine purrs and the deck rocks under bare feet. She peels the bottom aside, spreads soft folds, and licks straight through the slick. Her partner arches, ass up against the rail, grinding back in open invitation. Every wet lap pulls a fresh moan from the other. They switch places without missing a beat, one blonde straddling the other’s face while the hull cuts through the water. Fingers curl inside, tongues swirl, slick dripping onto sun-warmed wood. Out here the only witness is the open sky and the low hum of the motor, and they take full advantage of both.