The Pool Girl

Bailey Brooke pushes the net through clear water, hips swaying with each stroke. Upstairs, Zoey Monroe watches from the window, breathing hard, caught by the way those cutoff shorts ride up Bailey’s ass every time the pole swings. Heat prickles between her thighs. She yanks on leggings and slips downstairs. Nothing to lose, she thinks. Go hard or go home. She finds Bailey stretching on tiptoe to skim the far corner. Zoey slides an arm around her waist, pulls her back flush against her chest. “I’ve been staring at you all day,” she says, voice low. Her other hand dips lower, fingers splayed across denim. Bailey jolts, drops the pole, spins—sees Zoey’s eyes dark and sure. The flush on her cheeks says flattered; the way her nipples stiffen through the white tank says trouble. “Married,” Bailey breathes, ring glinting as she lifts her hand like a shield. Zoey smirks, lifts her own ring finger. “Same. Rings are just jewelry. I want the body underneath.” She steps close, palms the curve of Bailey’s ass, squeezes until the denim creaks. Bailey’s breath hitches. The protest dies on her tongue. Neighbor talk drifts from across the hedge. Zoey jerks her chin toward the open patio door. “Inside. Unless you want an audience.” They stumble through the hallway, knocking over a coat rack, mouths already crashing together. On the bed Zoey strips the tank, exposes heavy tits, thumbs the nipples until Bailey moans. Then she tugs those cutoffs down, drags her knuckles through wet heat. Bailey arches, legs parting like surrender. Zoey drops to her knees between them, breathes hot over slick folds, tongue already working the swollen clit before Bailey finishes kicking free of her shorts.