The Temperature of Longing

The sun is a heavy weight on my shoulders, a molten embrace that turns my skin into something soft and yielding. I can feel the salt crusting on my upper lip, a tiny crystalline reminder of the ocean's kiss moments ago. Underneath the delicate lace of my bikini—which feels like frost against my overheated flesh—my heartbeat pulses in time with the rhythmic crash of waves.
I close my eyes and let the humid air settle into my lungs, tasting of jasmine and sea spray. Every inch of me is humming, a low-frequency vibration of heat that demands to be shared. I wait for you to step out from the shadows, your shadow falling over me like a cool sheet. I want to feel your fingers trace the curve of my hip, finding the places where the sun has baked me gold, and pull me into a world where only our breath and the tide exist.

Editor: Pulse