Good girl

Izzy lies still on the lounger, knees still hooked toward her chest, the wedged fabric of the bikini bottoms a constant, wet pressure against her. Her breathing is uneven, her lips still parted, her eyes fixed on Marcus as he stops at the edge of the lounger. The silence between them stretches, thick and electric, broken only by the hum of the pool filter.

Then Marcus raises his hand. He reaches down and places it gently on top of her damp hair, his fingers threading through the wet strands. He pats her once, twice, a slow, deliberate gesture, like he's soothing a nervous animal.

"Good girl," he says, his voice low and even. "You did great out here. Really. You followed every direction without hesitation. That's rare."

Izzy feels a shiver run through her that has nothing to do with the evening chill. Her cheeks flush, and something warm spreads through her chest, a quiet thrill at the praise. She doesn't pull away. She just looks up at him, her eyes soft, her lips still parted.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I just wanted to get it right."

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