The air is still warm when I step out onto the balcony, the last slice of sun melting into the ocean behind me. I can feel the city breathing — cars far below, distant music, the low hum of anticipation that always settles in my stomach this time of day.

I lean against the railing, letting the breeze kiss every inch of exposed skin. The white bikini feels almost too small now, like it’s barely containing what’s been building all afternoon. My body is already humming — pulse heavy between my thighs, nipples tight against silk, every nerve awake and greedy.

I know you’re watching.

I don’t look toward your window. I don’t need to. I turn slowly instead, letting the dying light slide down my spine, over the curve of my hips, pooling in the dip of my lower back. My fingers trail idly along the edge of the fabric — not pulling, just teasing the line where skin meets silk. A soft sigh escapes me. The sound is quiet, but I know it carries.

I shift my weight, one leg bending, ass lifting just enough that the thong disappears completely between my cheeks. The breeze hits me there — cool against the heat that’s been simmering since morning — and I let my head tip back, lips parting on a silent moan.

When I finally face forward, the sunset is behind me like a halo I don’t deserve. My breasts rise and fall with every breath, the thin top clinging, outlining every detail you’re dying to taste. I run one hand up my stomach, between my cleavage, then cup the weight of one breast — squeezing slowly, thumb brushing over the peak until it pebbles harder.

My other hand drifts lower. Past the navel piercing. Under the waistband. Fingers find slick heat instantly. I don’t rush. I circle lazily at first, then dip inside — one finger, then two — curling just right while my hips roll in tiny, filthy circles.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out too loud… but not too hard. I want you to hear the little whimpers, the wet sounds, the way my breathing hitches when I hit that spot that makes my thighs shake.

I reach for the cocktail on the ledge — bright layers of color catching the last light — and bring the salted rim to my mouth. Tongue slow, deliberate, licking in long strokes that have nothing to do with the drink. Then I set it down, spread my legs wider on the lounge chair, push the bikini bottom aside completely, and let you see everything.

Fingers plunge deeper now. Faster. My free hand grips the chair arm, knuckles light, body arching off the cushion. The orgasm builds like a wave I can’t — won’t — stop. When it crashes I don’t hold back: back bows, hips buck, a long, throaty moan spills into the evening air as I come hard, trembling, dripping, completely lost in it.

Afterward I stay there, legs still open, chest heaving, skin glowing in the afterburn of sunset and sex. I lift my fingers to my lips, taste myself slowly, eyes finally drifting toward your window.

A small, wicked smile curves my mouth.

Next time… maybe I’ll leave the door unlocked.