Megan's eyes narrowed slightly as she took us in again—our clean clothes, no sand clinging to the hems, no salt-crusted hair or sunburned skin.
Angela's sundress looked freshly laundered, the thin cotton whispering against her thighs with every subtle shift, riding just high enough to tease the bare curve of her ass if she bent even a fraction.
Mira's jeans were crisp and dark now, hugging her hips like a lover's hands, but I could still smell the faint, lingering tang of her mid-flight squirt on my pants where she'd ground against me.
Lisa's tank top clung to her sweat-damp skin, nipples dark shadows under the fabric, her cargo shorts unbuttoned at the top like she was one deep breath from peeling them off.
Even I looked untouched by the elements: no sweat stains, no dust in the creases of my shirt, hair still damp but neat from the cave pool rinse, cock half-hard and pressing against my zipper from the memory of Mira's tits mashed to my chest.
