Isabelle's question hung in the air between us, laden with promise. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on my collarbone, sending shivers down my spine. The thin white robe clung to her still-damp skin, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the curves beneath. Everything about her—her scent, her touch, the warmth of her body so close to mine—was intoxicating.
I wanted her. God, how I wanted her.
But something held me back.
With more willpower than I knew I possessed, I gently caught her wandering hand in mine.
"Isabelle," I said, my voice rough with restrained desire. "I can't."
Confusion flickered across her perfect features, followed by a flash of hurt that twisted my gut. "You don't want me?"
"That's not it at all," I rushed to explain, squeezing her hand. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything. But not like this."
She withdrew her hand slightly. "What do you mean?"
