Washing my car

She steps outside wearing nothing but an open white shirt, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Sunlight catches her blonde hair as she leans over the hood, squeezing soapy water from a sponge. Water runs in thin rivulets down the glossy paint, and she follows every drop with slow, careful strokes of her hand. When she climbs into the driver’s seat, the shirt rides higher, baring smooth skin and the soft swell between her legs. She drags the damp cloth across the dashboard, across her own bare stomach, leaving faint trails that glisten. Her fingers slip between her thighs, spreading the slick warmth, rubbing slow circles until her breath turns short and sharp. The car rocks slightly with each movement, and she watches her own reflection in the windshield, lips parted, cheeks flushed, until the tension breaks and her thighs quiver under her hand.