Poolside pleasures

Nothing beats hours at the poolside with her stretched on the lounge, sun warming our skin. We take turns drifting through the water, then sprawl back out. A pair of sunglasses slides down her nose as her smile tilts. She rolls onto her stomach. I straddle her thighs and pour a cold ribbon of oil down the length of her back. Her skin gleams. My palms slide wide, pressing the liquid lower until my thumbs meet the waistband of her tiny bikini bottoms. I ease them down. She arches. I work the oil into each cheek, slow and deliberate. My fingers slip between them, one warm fingertip finding the tight pucker hidden there. I linger—circling, teasing—then push deeper until she sighs my name. Without a word she reaches back, fumbles my board shorts open and draws me free. She pumps once, slicking me with the same sun-warmed oil. I lean in. The lounge chair creaks when I part her thighs, line up, and sink the first solid inch into the slick ring. She moans through her teeth. I grip her hips and sink all the way, setting a heavy rhythm that has the cushions shuddering. Sunlight stripes our bodies. Water drips from the pool onto hot concrete. The scent of tanning oil and sweat keeps sweetening the air. Faster. Deeper. Skin slaps. Her nails scrape the fabric. I twist her hair in my fist and fuck harder, every thrust sending a fine spray of pool water flying. She tightens once, twice, then shudders hard, clenching around me as she comes. Seconds later I follow, burying myself to the hilt, heat pulsing deep inside her in thick, rhythmic bursts. We lie there breathing and slick until the late sun dips low enough to promise a private dusk.