Wanna swim?

"Wanna swim?" Anita asked while we lounged in her Miami garden. Heat pressed against my skin. I shook my head; the water looked too cold, too sudden. She gave a slow smile. "Me neither," she murmured, "but I have better ideas." Her hand rose and brushed the curve of my breast, thumb tracing the cotton like she already owned the heat beneath it. Every fingertip teased tighter circles, pulling my nipple stiff against the thin fabric. I swallowed. She leaned closer, breath warm at my ear. "No one’s watching," she whispered, and her other hand found my waist, sliding lower with lazy confidence until her palm cupped me, gentle, sure, unmistakable. My hips answered without asking, and she exhaled like I’d already said yes.