Wanna swim?

We sat in Anita's garden in Miami, the air heavy with sun. "Wanna swim?" she asked. Cold water didn't tempt me and I shook my head. She smiled. "Me neither." Then her hand rose, palm soft, sliding up until it covered my breasts. Her fingers found my nipples through thin fabric and teased them into slow, tight peaks. She didn't move fast, just a quiet press and release, testing weight and shape. Heat gathered beneath her hand. I felt it lower, a spreading ache that throbbed between my legs. A thumb traced small circles. My breathing changed. She leaned closer, perfume and sunscreen mingling, the garden suddenly smaller. Neither of us spoke. Only the rustle of leaves, the weight of her palm, and the slow, wicked drag of her thumb kept time.