Teens at home

I had the hose in one hand, the other working soil around the pots. Nothing special. Then the idea caught me. I tilted the nozzle, let a thin arc reach her thigh where she sat flipping pages. She looked up, caught the grin on my face, and set the magazine aside without a word. Her shirt hit the tiles first, then everything else she wore. I helped, fingers steady, peeling wet cotton away until she stood bare. Water beaded on her stomach, tracked lower. I dropped to my knees. My slick fingers traced along the inside of her thigh and pressed in. One. Two. The stretch came slow, deliberate, a rhythm all its own. She exhaled hard, leaned back on the garden table. Three followed, folding tight, working deeper until my knuckles eased past that final ring of muscle. She took the whole hand, heat and pulse closing around my wrist like a fist of her own. Every push sent a pulse up her spine. We stayed like that until the ordinary day cracked open, wetter than the hose could ever manage.