CHAPTER 77: THE MOMENT OF TRUTH (MINOR R-18)

I’d been "working" on that pipe for about twenty minutes now—deliberately dragging it out, letting every second stretch like warm taffy. The job was stupid simple, something I could’ve done blindfolded with one hand tied behind my back. But nah. This wasn’t about fixing plumbing.

This was about setting the stage. Letting Isabella’s mind wander, building the kind of anticipation that makes people reckless.

The space was already heating up—small room, my body radiating heat, plus leftover steam from the water damage clinging to the tiles. So, I peeled off my "Rodrig Plumbing" shirt and tossed it onto the floor without ceremony.

Let it lay there like a flag planted in enemy territory.

The cool air hit my torso, and even I had to pause for a second. The system didn’t just upgrade me—it turned my body into a goddamn weapon.

My chest looked like something out of a sculptor’s wet dream—broad, cut, and impossible to ignore.

Abs tight and stacked in perfect symmetry, like someone had mapped out geometry across my stomach and then added just enough roughness to make it feel real. My arms flexed without effort, thick cords of muscle shifting under skin like coiled tension. I looked like I could throw a man across a room—or fuck someone through a wall—and I didn’t need to prove it. My body did the talking for me.

I was crouched low, casually messing with tools I didn’t even need, when I heard soft footsteps approach the door.

Right on cue.

No knock. No polite warning. Just the door swinging open like she forgot what boundaries were.

"I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask if you needed—oh my God."

There it was.

I looked up slow. Controlled. Calculated. Like a predator giving its prey a second to realize it’s too late to run.

Her eyes locked onto mine. And then dropped. Hard.

She froze.

That wet tank top she’d been wearing earlier? That had already told me everything I needed to know about what was coming. But now? Now she was staring at the full picture. At a body her joke of a husband could never match. A body that made her feel seen—and wanted—for the first time in too damn long.

"Sorry," I said with a small smirk, just a little arrogant. "It was getting hot with all the steam. Hope that’s not a problem."

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her brain was buffering.

Her eyes were locked on my chest, trailing slowly—painfully—from shoulder to shoulder, then sliding down my abs like they were counting the ridges. Her gaze dipped to where my jeans hung low on my hips, and her mouth parted like she’d just forgotten how to function.

"I... no, that’s... that’s fine," she said finally, her voice so soft it barely registered. "I just... wanted to know if you needed anything."

I stood. Slow. Let her take in all six-foot-three of me, every inch cut and honed for exactly this kind of moment. I didn’t just fill the space—I owned it.

"Actually," I said, my voice dropping just a notch deeper, smoother, heavier, "a towel would help. I need to mop up this mess."

But she wasn’t moving. Not an inch.

She was stuck in place, pupils wide, chest rising and falling like her body couldn’t decide if it wanted to flee or throw itself at me. My presence was a gravitational pull, and she’d already passed the event horizon.

"Mrs. Rodriguez?" I said, low and warm, letting her name roll off my tongue like silk dipped in heat.

She jumped like I’d touched her.

"Y-Yes! Sorry, I just..." Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. She looked genuinely panicked—like the hormones were driving the car and her logic was tied up in the trunk.

"You’re just... wow," she said.

There it was. Truth, raw and breathless.

She winced, like she wanted to take it back, but it was already out there, floating between us like a confession.

"Sorry. That must have been... inappropriate," she added quickly.

Must, huh?

But her eyes didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. They flicked back to my chest, then down again. And again. And again. Like her brain was trying to memorize the whole layout before the dream ended.

I stepped in.

Not enough to touch. Just enough to invade her airspace. Close enough for her to smell the heat coming off me, the faint trace of sweat and muscle and something else—something that wasn’t quite human.

"It’s not inappropriate," I said, voice low and laced with just enough power to make her heart skip. "I train hard. It’s nice when someone actually notices."

She didn’t answer. Just stared up at me like I was the storm she’d been waiting years for.

And lucky for her—I was only just warming up.

Her eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, like her body was glitching between propriety and raw, feral need.

"I bet you do," she whispered, then blinked hard—like she just heard herself. "I mean... you’re obviously very... fit."

Fit. Like that word could possibly box in everything she was seeing.

"And you," I said, letting my eyes rake down her body—slow, intentional, like a predator circling prey—then back up with the weight of full male hunger, "are absolutely stunning. I hope your husband tells you that every day."

The compliment wasn’t a lie nor gentle either. It was a loaded weapon, aimed and fired with precision.

Her expression cracked.

A flicker—barely a second—but enough. I saw it: years of being dismissed. Shrugged off. Undesired. That hollow ache that eats at a woman from the inside until she forgets she’s even worth noticing.

"He..." she started, lips twitching like the words tasted bitter. Then she swallowed them down. "Thank you. That’s... very kind." That was another kind of maturity right there!

"I’m not being kind," I said, stepping in close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off me. "I’m being honest. You’re the kind of beautiful that stops traffic, Mrs. Rodriguez. The kind that makes men reckless. Make them stupid."

She inhaled sharply through her nose like her body was trying to process the compliment and the heat rushing through her bloodstream at the same time.

Her chest was rising faster, breasts visibly straining under the thin tank top with every uneven breath. I could see the goosebumps forming on her arms, the way her thighs pressed together slightly like she was trying to squeeze the ache away without making it obvious.

"I should... I should let you get back to work," she said, but her voice was shaky, her body frozen in place. Her lips said retreat, but her knees were locked like they didn’t believe her.

"Should you?" I asked, stepping closer until the space between us practically vibrated with tension. Her chin tilted up instinctively to meet my eyes, that submissive tilt women only give to the kind of man who knows how to break them apart piece by piece.

"Or should you stay... and tell me what you really need fixed?"

Her breath caught in her throat. A tiny gasp, barely audible, but real.

"I don’t know what you mean," she whispered, voice like velvet fraying at the edges.

"I think you do," I murmured, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. My fingertips barely skimmed her cheek, but her breath hitched like I’d touched her somewhere filthy. Her eyes fluttered half-closed again, like she was hanging off a cliff and I was the drop and the wind all at once.

"I think you’ve been needing something fixed for a long time... something your husband can’t even begin to handle."