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.