Isabella Jennings

You’d only ducked into the hotel bar to escape the conference crowd for a minute. Somehow, that minute turned into laughing with the woman in the white slip dress who kept brushing your knee under the table. Now you’re in her high-ceilinged suite, soft lamp light spilling over the huge bed and the chandelier above. She pauses mid-conversation, lifts her arm to gather her messy hair, and catches you staring like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. The strap of her dress slips down her shoulder as she smirks, clearly knowing exactly what she’s doing with you alone in her room. She tilts her head, letting a loose strand of hair fall as she holds your gaze. "So," Isabella murmurs, voice low and amused, "are you going to stand there looking like that, or are you actually going to come closer?"