Bikini bunnies

Angel meets her poolside. Marketa waits. Her white bikini clings, wet fabric molding to soft breasts. The heat rolls off the stone, mixing with something heavier, thicker. Marketa leans back. Legs part just enough. Water droplets trace down her inner thigh, linger, drop to the deck. Angel watches. Her suit is see-through now. Pale nipples press hard against the fabric. She runs a finger along the waistband, tugs, lets it snap back. The smack cuts the silence. Marketa smiles, slow, wicked. Her fingers slip beneath her own bottoms, stroke once, twice. A breath. Then she pulls the fabric aside and shows her glistening cunt. Slick. Swollen. Angel sinks to her knees between open thighs. Tongue finds heat. Swirls. Marketa groans, grips the edge of the lounger, arches, pushes up against the mouth working her open. The sky burns overhead. No breeze. Just skin, sweat, the wet sounds of a greedy mouth and fingers now pumping into a tight hole that keeps squeezing back. Angel moans into the flesh against her face. Marketa comes hard. Shudders. Grabs a fistful of wet hair and holds Angel still until the trembling slows. She drags the girl up, kisses her deep, tasting herself, greedy again already. Hands slide down Angel's stomach, beneath her suit, find the soaked heat waiting there. Two fingers slide in. Twist. Thrust. Angel gasps into Marketa's mouth. The water on the deck splashes as thighs spread wider, greedy for more.