Three of my women were still missing.
On the way we had to pick up Isabella from the Celestial Grand Hotel, and she didn't come alone.
Maya stepped out behind her — short, stacked, and looking so impossibly cute in whatever outfit she'd thrown together that my brain did that familiar short-circuit where it tried to reconcile how something so adorably innocent could look so devastatingly innocent and fuckable at the same time.
Isabella climbed in first. Skirt still criminally short, heels still sky-high, that unmistakable post-Peter glow clinging to her skin like she'd been thoroughly wrecked and wanted the whole world to know it that she was a Goddess now thanks to my Seed.
She swept her gaze across the van's luxurious interior, raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, and declared "acceptable" before claiming a seat near the middle with the effortless confidence of a woman whose standards had skyrocketed the moment I started spoiling her.
