CHAPTER 74: THE WET SINFUL BEAUTY~

Inside the House

Isabella Rodriguez moved through her kitchen like she was performing for an audience that never showed up.

Every flick of her wrist, every quiet sip from her overpriced coffee mug screamed routine—well-polished, painfully efficient, and just shy of desperate. Steam curled off the surface like it was the only heat in her life she could count on.

She was thirty-four and still hot enough to make strangers look twice and their wives pretend not to notice. But in her own house? She might as well have been a damn lamp.

Her dark hair was tied up in a messy bun that looked accidental but took two mirror checks, and her yoga pants fit like sin sculpted her hips. That gray tank top hugged her curves like it knew exactly how underappreciated they were.

She cleaned a counter that didn’t need cleaning. Reorganized a drawer that hadn’t seen chaos since 2019.

The truth? She wasn’t organizing—she was spiraling in soft silence. Loneliness didn’t whisper anymore. It shouted. And she’d learned how to smile through it, like some kind of suburban martyr.

She wasn’t just lonely. She was starved. For something raw. For a gaze that burned. For fingers that knew how to pull her apart in all the right ways—and the wrong ones. She wanted to be looked at like she was dangerous again.

Like she was worth sinning for.

Her gaze caught on her reflection in the kitchen window, and for a moment, the woman staring back looked like she belonged in someone else’s fantasy. That body? Men used to lose sleep over it. Smooth skin. Tight curves. Breasts that filled out clothes like they had a grudge against subtlety. She worked for that body.

Maintained it. And for what? So her husband could scroll Instagram models while she scrubbed countertops that already shined?

Isabella blinked. Still her. Still invisible. And maybe that was the cruelest part—she hadn’t faded. The world just stopped seeing.

Her friends always made it sound so casual—how their husbands couldn’t keep their hands off them. How they had to sneak away just to get a moment of peace, how their men still looked at them like they were the prize after all these years.

Isabella would laugh along, sip her wine, throw in a little joke. But inside, she was cracking.

They had no idea what it was like to be completely untouched for months. No fingers brushing over your skin. No mouth whispering need into your neck. No grip on your waist, pulling you in like you were the reason someone breathed.

She didn’t even remember the last time Roberto kissed her with hunger. It had become mechanical—like checking a box. His hands were cold when they touched her, and his eyes were always somewhere else.

On his phone. On his work.

On everything but her!

It hadn’t always been like this. She remembered the man who used to chase her around the house like she was some irresistible secret. Who used to press her against the wall in the hallway just because he couldn’t wait until they got to the bedroom.

But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped seeing her as a woman. Somewhere, she’d faded into a title. Wife. Mother. Placeholder.

The change had been slow, like watching color drain from a photo. The kisses got shorter. The glances colder.

The sex, if it happened, felt like a task being crossed off a list. She tried. God, she tried. She bought new lingerie—black lace, red silk, even a sheer set that made her blush just looking at herself in the mirror. She lit candles. Cooked. Talked. Cried.

Nothing worked.

So she stopped trying.

She ordered her first toy one night after another empty anniversary dinner. It arrived in a plain box, and she opened it like it was a secret affair.

The first time she used it, she cried. Not from shame—but from the brutal realization that a machine had made her feel more alive than the man she shared a bed with.

Now, it was just another part of her routine. A ghost lover that waited patiently in the dark. Always ready. Always silent. Yet it too could only do so much.

And lately... she’d started watching. Not just regular porn, either—no, the kind with slow hands and deep kisses.

Where the man looked at the woman like she was made of divine fire. Where every moan was worship, not just noise. She watched and wondered what it felt like to be wanted like that. Not quick. Not rough. Not out of pity. But desired. Ravished like something sacred.

How long could someone go without being seen before they disappeared completely?

She didn’t know. But she was starting to fade.

The ache never really left anymore. It lingered just under her skin, humming softly between her thighs, reminding her that her body still remembered what it needed even if no one else did. Some days, that ache hurt worse than heartbreak.

Isabella sighed as she gathered her cleaning supplies, the mask of routine snapping back into place. The bathroom on the first floor—the one the boys had used yesterday—needed scrubbing.

She welcomed the distraction. Anything to keep her from sinking into that pit of quiet grief again.

But as she walked down the hallway with practiced steps, her hips still swayed with the same unconscious elegance she’d always had. She didn’t realize it, but her loneliness had given her a kind of tragic beauty—like a rose growing through concrete, blooming for no one.

And she had no idea that someone was watching.

Two, actually.

Her only hope!

Inside a sleek black Audi parked just far enough away to be forgettable, Peter sat with his fingers dancing across the keyboard like a concert pianist. Calm. Cold. Precise.

"She’s moving," he murmured. The screen lit up with multiple live feeds of Isabella’s home.

"She’s heading for the downstairs bathroom," Madison noted, her voice curious as she leaned in, her body brushing his shoulder.

"The one I wired yesterday," Peter confirmed, eyes locked on the feed.

And then, she appeared on screen—Isabella, unaware and glowing under the soft lights of her home. Even in sweats and a tank top, she was devastating. Her hips moved like music. Her breasts shifted with every step, soft and full beneath the cling of cotton.

Her expression was tight, almost forced—like someone trying to keep a brave face in the middle of breaking.

"She’s beautiful," Madison said, voice quieter now, touched by something she couldn’t quite name. "And she doesn’t even know it."

Peter’s gaze sharpened. His eyes didn’t just see her—they read her. Every twitch. Every breath. Every tell. The way her shoulders carried weight she never voiced.

The way she scrubbed that bathroom like she was punishing herself, trying to erase something deeper than dirt. The quiet sensuality in her body, repressed but still alive, coiled like smoke inside her bones.

"Four years," Peter whispered. "Four years of neglect, and she’s still radiant."

"Not for much longer," Madison replied, her fingers sliding across his thigh, possessive and promising. "You’re going to give her back what he stole."

Peter didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Because the moment he’d laid eyes on Isabella Rodriguez, her story had already started to change.

And this time... she was going to be seen.

*

Isabella had been on her knees—literally—scrubbing that goddamn bathroom floor like it owed her money. Hair tied back, tank top clinging, she was lost in the rhythm of angry cleaning and quiet resentment. Her thoughts had drifted again, like they always did, to that husband-shaped void upstairs.

She reached behind the toilet, frowning as her elbow nudged something metal.

Then the whole thing exploded.

Not a metaphor. A literal explosion of cold water burst from the weakened supply line like it had been waiting for this exact moment to go full soap opera. The stream nailed her in the chest, dead-on, like a sniper shot from a pissed-off plumbing god.

"¡Madre de Dios!" she shrieked, staggering back, drenched from collarbone to thighs in a blink.

That wet gray tank top hugged her curves like it knew exactly how underappreciated they were.

Clinging to every rise and dip of her body, it moved with her like a second skin—one that was tired of being ignored.

The thin cotton had soaked up every drop of the spray like it wanted to be part of the show, going sheer just enough to tease without giving everything away.

Her breasts, full and high, pressed against the fabric like they were trying to remind the world they still existed. Still deserved to be seen. Touched. Worshipped.

Water slid down the slope of her collarbone, tracing a path between the valley of her breasts before rolling over the soft plane of her stomach. It was obscene, the way her body glistened—like the bathroom lights had made some secret deal with the water to spotlight her in all the right places.