The first bikini was white, so sheer it was almost a suggestion. April stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, the Miami sun turning her silhouette into a haloed shadow. She turned, a slow pivot on the balls of her feet, her hands sliding up her own ribs. Robin watched from the deep sofa, a glass of water sweating in his hand. He hadn’t touched the tequila yet. He wanted to be here, fully here, for this.
“Well?” Her voice was a tease, but her eyes were serious, watching him watch her.
“It’s criminal,” he said, his own voice rough. “Come here.”
She didn’t walk. She sauntered, the tiny triangles of fabric doing nothing to contain the sway of her hips. When she reached him, she didn’t sit beside him. She placed one knee on the cushion next to his thigh, then the other, straddling his lap without touching him. The heat of her hovered an inch above his jeans. He could smell the coconut oil on her skin, the salt from the pool.
Her hips began to move, a slow, grinding circle in the air. The music from his sound system was low, a throbbing bassline. She matched it. Her hands went to her own hair, then trailed down her neck, over the white strings tied at her neck and back. Robin’s hands clenched on his knees. His cock stirred, thickening against his zipper. He let the glass fall to the rug.
His hands came up to grip her waist, but she caught his wrists, pressing them back against the sofa cushions. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, leaning forward so her lips brushed his ear. “You just look.”
She resumed the dance, now closer, the soft skin of her inner thighs whispering against the denim covering his. The white fabric darkened in the center, a damp spot blooming where she grew warm. Robin’s breath hitched. He could see the tight points of her nipples against the thin material. Every practiced, confident roll of her hips was a promise, and the ache in his groin sharpened into a single, focused need.
He broke. A growl tore from his throat and he surged up, his mouth finding hers in a desperate, open kiss. His hands finally gripped her ass, pulling her down hard against the rigid line of his erection. She gasped into his mouth, her performance melting into real, shuddering want. The kiss was salt and coconut and hunger.
The second bikini was a vibrant, impossible green. She wore it to a street fair, her body a shock of color against the pastel art deco buildings. He bought her a stupid, oversized hat. He held her hand, lacing their fingers together tightly, as if the crowd might pull her away. They shared a mango paleta, sticky and sweet, and he licked a drip from the corner of her mouth in full view of everyone. She laughed, a real, unguarded sound that made something fragile and hopeful crack open in his chest.
The third was black, cut high on the hips. She wore it to a club that night, and they danced in a dark corner, his body a cage around hers, his lips on her neck, his hands possessive on the bare skin of her back. The world was bass and sweat and her. For hours, there was no Paula, no custody battle, no hollow penthouse. There was only April’s smile, the press of her body, the way she looked at him like he was the answer to a question she’d just begun to ask.
Later, much later, he stood on the terrace in a silk nightgown, the city’s lights blurring into the black ocean. The bourbon in his glass was amber and slow. He was satiated, pleasantly tired, the ghost of her laughter still in his ears.
The slide of the glass door behind him. He turned.
April stood framed in the light from the bedroom. The fourth bikini was silver, a liquid metal that clung to every curve and caught the moonlight like a mirror. It was less than nothing. It was everything. Robin’s throat closed. Speech was beyond him.
She walked to him, a vision of cool metal and warm skin. She didn’t speak either. She simply turned and lowered herself onto his lap, settling back against his chest. His free hand came around her stomach, holding her there. She leaned her head back on his shoulder, and her right breast, lifted by the silver cup, pressed against his lips.
He gave it a soft, closed-mouth kiss. Felt her heartbeat against his mouth. “Tonight,” he whispered, his voice gravelly, “I want to try something new.”
She tilted her head to look at him, her eyes searching his in the dim light. “New?”
“I’m going to pour this,” he said, lifting the bourbon glass between them, “on you. And then I’m going to taste it.”
A slow smile spread across her face. She laughed, a low, knowing sound. “You are just obsessed with my butt.”
“It’s heaven,” he replied, utterly serious. He nuzzled her neck. “My own personal paradise.”
He didn’t wait. He stood, lifting her with him, and carried her back inside, away from the city’s eyes. He laid her on the vast bed, the silver making her look like a treasure laid out for him. He started at her ankles, his mouth following his hands as he peeled the slick material down. He kissed the inside of her knee, the soft skin of her inner thigh, the crease of her hip. He took his time, worshipping every newly revealed inch, until the silver bikini was a discarded puddle on the floor and she was bare, breathing heavily, her skin flushed.
Then he turned her onto her stomach. He knelt between her legs, his hands spreading her. He took the glass of bourbon. He poured a single, slow stream onto the small of her back. It traced a hot, amber path down the valley of her spine, over the rise of her ass, and into the shadowed cleft between.
He followed it with his mouth.