Feel the heat - part 2.

The first time you see Cindy Hope, you think: God, look at her. Same reaction every time. And tonight she brought Cipriana, who only makes the temperature climb higher. Two girls, two scraps of fabric pretending to be bikinis, both already glistening under the midday sun. A quick breeze comes in off the pool and tugs at the triangle tops, turning soft flesh into sudden, bare curves. Cindy tucks a wet strand of hair behind her ear, watches her friend do the same, both of them laughing through the same burst of goosebumps. Tiny bottoms ride up when they stretch, riding the crease of an ass cheek, slipping back only when fingers decide to tease them down again. They trade sunscreen like they’re sharing a secret—warm palms gliding over shoulders, waist, the soft undersides of breasts, thumbs sliding under fabric to get everywhere. Cipriana arches her back to reach a spot between her shoulder blades; Cindy takes the opportunity, tongue flicking the salt from her skin in one quick lick. That ends the laughter. Breath catches. The bottle drops. Bodies press closer until the sun stops feeling like the main source of heat. An ice cube from abandoned cocktails melts between four lips, and you can see its trail dripping over the swell of one breast, down a tanned stomach, pooling where a bikini string has already loosened. Fingers follow the melt, hook the fabric, ease it aside. Smooth pussies catch sunlight now, slick from more than just lotion. A bead of water slips between folds; both girls shiver, hips rolling, mouths parting in short, silent moans. They sink onto a towel, knees spread to each other, each hand cupped between the other’s thighs, slow circles drawing out thick, wet sound. Cindy’s necklace catches the light; Cipriana’s nipples tighten the second a thumb brushes across them. Lips meet. Tongues taste sunscreen and summer and a need that smells like sweat. Another wet finger slips inside; a thigh trembles. Bikini bottoms—useless now—are flung on the hot stone deck where they steam. Bare feet plant themselves, thighs open wider, everything slick in the sun. Their asses lift in tandem whenever fingers find the right rhythm, each orgasm sounding like a low growl dragged straight from their throats.