All wet

Everyone knows hand washing beats the rest—at least for the watching. Two girls in bikinis move around the coupe, sponges in their hands, running foam over the paint. The water soaks through thin nylon until their nipples darken the wet fabric. When the suits cling too tight, they peel the bottoms off and toss them aside. One climbs onto the hood, knees spread, the other pressing between them. Their mouths meet first, then fingers slide over bare skin, finding heat and slick already waiting. They move together in time with the sun on wet metal, hips grinding, small sounds falling into the open air, hips rolling until each shudders once and the car rocks under them.