Constance was surprised again by her invitation (was it an invitation? for what?), by the warmth she could feel in her face, the flip of her stomach, the tenacity of her observations: Imogen's still-short breath (shouldn't it have returned?), the rise and fall of her ridiculous athletic top, that bare midriff (and every complex, convex line of it), the fire of her gaze, the closeness of their bodies, the heat Constance had pinned for temper…
She wanted to step back. She wanted to stay precisely where she was, to step forward.
'I can't.' Imogen broke the silence, regretful. 'Too soon.'