Marcus makes his move

The shutter clicks a final time, then Marcus lowers the camera. He doesn't speak. He just sets it down on the lounger beside her and walks toward her, his footsteps slow and deliberate on the wet concrete.

Izzy breath catches. Her eyes drop involuntarily — down his torso, past his waist — and she sees it. The unmistakable bulge straining against his sweatpants, thick and heavy, impossible to miss. She feels her thighs press together instinctively, the wedged fabric shifting against her sensitive flesh, and a wave of heat rolls through her chest.

She doesn't say anything. She can't.

Her nipples tighten beneath the damp white bikini top. She can feel a slow, warm pulse between her legs that has nothing to do with the evening air.

Marcus stops at the edge of the lounger, looking down at her. His eyes trace the length of her body — the cling of the wet fabric, the spread of her thighs, the flush spreading across her chest. He doesn't smile. He just looks, and the weight of that look makes her stomach flutter.

Izzy swallows, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. She just tilts her chin up slightly, her eyes fixed on his, and waits.

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