He noticed.

His fingers brushed the edge of my panties, then slipped underneath, finding my slick folds. I bit my lip hard to keep from gasping. He stroked me slowly — two fingers gliding through my wetness, circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs tremble. The wet sounds were faint, masked by the conversation and the waves, but I could hear them in my own head — obscene, filthy, undeniable.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured under his breath, so quietly only I could hear. His voice was rough, strained. “All night, sitting here next to me, and your pussy is soaked for me.”

I nodded slightly, eyes...