Peter didn't have to wait long. The footsteps thudded toward the door like someone sprinting in heels and regret. When it opened, Isabella Rodriguez froze mid-breath—mouth open, eyes wide, and brain clearly short-circuiting as it tried to reboot.
She'd changed into dry clothes.
White blouse tight enough to qualify as a confession, jeans hugging her hips like they missed being touched. But her hair still told the story—damp, unruly, clinging to her neck in dark strands that made her look less like a suburban wife and more like a woman freshly dragged out of chaos. It was giving "drenched in fantasy, accidentally horny" and her face said she knew it.
Peter didn't even blink.
