City lights twinkle far below in mila azul bikini. Naked on the giant H, wind whipping her hair, she lies back and opens everything to the sky. “Fly me, mila azul bikini,” she begs, fingers plunging in time with distant traffic. Helicopters could appear any moment; the danger makes her wetter. “Everyone look up at mila azul bikini!” she cries, rubbing her clit raw, thrusting four fingers deep, screaming “mila azul bikini, title, title, fuck yes title!” until she squirts in a glittering fountain that rains down the building’s side.