The memory of touching her hit him hard that evening as he was lathering up in the shower. He’d put himself through a grueling workout, but it hadn’t helped. He ran the bar of soap over his arms, unable to stop picturing her there with him. He wanted her hands touching him, not his own. When he’d rubbed the sunscreen on her, she was all softness, all curves, her body pliable, yielding. He closed his eyes. His hands kneaded her thighs, his eyes glued to the fleshy mound of her sex. He cupped it with his hand, then pushed the thin fabric aside, his fingers parting the lips of her slick little figa, his mouth on her high ripe breasts, her hard nipples rolling under his tongue. Her lush body beneath his, opening up to him. He soaped up his cock, the length going rigid as he imagined her mouth on him, his cock moving in and out between her ripe lips, the little moans in her throat as she swallowed him down, her tongue swirling over the head, again and again, driving him mad. Now he was taking her on her hands and knees, thrusting into her from behind.
