Wet wishes

She loves the way the pink bikini barely covers her. The color pops against her skin, but the real show is what it leaves half-hidden. When she walks, eyes always drop straight to her chest. She notices. She smiles. And the heat between her legs answers with a warm rush. She isn't shy about it. She wants them looking. Wants them hard. Wants the hunger she stirs. She stands in front of the mirror now, alone, hands sliding up her ribs. Her fingers pause just under the thin straps, then tug them down. Her breasts spill free, nipples already tight. She cups them, feels their weight, gives them a slow squeeze while her thighs press together. A soft sound leaves her lips. On the bed, she drops to her knees first, then stretches out on her back. One hand stays busy at her chest, pinching, rolling. The other slips lower, past the bikini bottoms she never took off. She rubs over the fabric, slow circles that make the material damp. Soon she's pushing it aside, fingers stroking bare skin, parting slick folds. Her breathing quickens, short little gasps as she circles her clit, dips lower, pushes inside. She watches herself in the mirror across the room. Blonde hair spreads across the pillow. She bites her lip, hips lifting into her own touch. Two fingers pump steadily now, the wet sound of it clear in the quiet room. She adds pressure to her clit with her thumb, rubs faster, harder, chasing the tightening coil low in her belly. Her free hand keeps working her nipple, tugging in rhythm with her thrusts. The tension breaks. Her thighs shake. A long, low moan rolls out as she comes, fingers buried deep, pussy pulsing around them. She stays like that a moment, chest heaving, skin flushed. Then she slides her fingers free, shiny with her own wetness, and licks them clean with a satisfied grin.