Their faces drew close—not rushed. Just inevitable.
The steam curled between them, softening the edges of their silhouettes as the moonlight caught the glimmer of droplets clinging to their skin.
Her fingers remained on his chest, slick and warm, sliding slowly over the ink etched into his body. She didn't move away. Neither did he.
Their mouths hovered, barely inches apart. The air between them was hot with rising tension. She could feel his breath—controlled, steady—fanning over her cheek. She could smell the faint mix of minerals and cedar on his skin.
He didn't kiss her.
Instead, he angled his head slightly and whispered, voice low and devastatingly soft, "This isn't the part where you lose focus."
Isabella didn't.
