She didn't even notice it at first. The way her nipples had hardened, pressing against the soaked fabric in silent betrayal. The way her yoga pants were now slick, hugging her hips, clinging to the soft roundness of her ass like they were proud of it—even if her husband never was.
"¡Mierda! ¡No, no, no!" she hissed, slipping on wet tile as she scrambled for the valve, hands soaked and useless.
She gave up, bolted from the room, leaving a trail of chaos behind her—water pooling, hardwood floors screaming for mercy, and her own wet body looking like something out of an adult fantasy gone sideways.
Her soaked clothes slapped against her skin as she ran, curves on full display, the kind of sight a man would beg to see once in his life. Not that her man ever noticed.
Isabella stood there for a second too long, staring at her reflection in the mirror across the hallway, chest heaving, lips parted, dripping wet and looking like some forgotten goddess of domestic chaos.
