Bikini goddess

Stella Delacroix slides across the lounge in a string bikini that barely keeps her tits in check. Sunlight slips between the strings, catching on the pale curves she moves like she owns the sky. She peels the top aside, lets her breasts drop free, heavy and pink-tipped. Her hand dips lower, finds the thin strip of fabric already slick. A slow tug, and the bottoms slip down her thighs. Naked now, she leans back on the cushions, knees open, heels planted. Fingertips trace her slit, already wet, the middle one dipping inside with a soft sound. She finds her clit, circles it, breath hitching. The strokes get quicker, deeper; her hips roll, chasing it. Then she lifts one hand to cup her breast, pinches the nipple, gives it a little twist that makes her mouth fall open. Two fingers push inside, knuckles glistening, while her thumb keeps working her clit. Every thrust draws a small, hungry sound from her throat. She arches, thighs shaking, chasing the build until it crashes over her. A rush of wetness coats her fingers; she rides it out, body twitching, then stills, chest rising and falling hard in the quiet room.