Steamy Pool House session

Isabella's POV 

I couldn't sleep.

 Again. 

 I kept staring at the ceiling fan for so long I was pretty sure it was spinning just to annoy me. I sighed and kicked the sheets off, tied my silk robe *barely*, and walked downstairs barefoot, my hair looking messy. 

 I told myself I just wanted water. Or air. Or anything that wasn’t my brain asking me “what the hell is wrong with you lately.”

 I didn’t plan to go anywhere near the pool, but my feet had other plans, and halfway through the kitchen, I heard it. 

 I wasn't mistaken. It was the sound of bodies slapping when having sex. 

 “Oh yeah …” A low male groan that sounded like it came from the bottom of someone's soul. A woman’s gasp, needy, half-surprised like she didn’t expect to feel “that” good.

 My stomach did a slow dirty flip. I should’ve turned around. I mean, come on. No harm in checking out.

 I tiptoe forward, like the nosy idiot I apparently am, hugging the wall, heart doing a full drum solo in my chest. 

 The pool house doors were a bit open, just enough for the underwater lights to spill out across the tiles.

 I peeked. Screw me. I immediately regretted every life choice that led me to this moment. 

 My father, Richard-freaking-Maxwell, fifty-five years old, King of boardrooms, and bad decisions was getting ridden like a rental horse by Lila, the caretaker’s daughter.

 His white shirt hung open, trouser shoved down just enough. Head tipped back in that classic “I'm powerful man finally getting an orgasm” expression.

 Lila was on top, long black hair swinging like curtain every time she rolled her hips down. She was making these little breathy sounds that would've been cute if they weren’t coming from the girl who sometimes folds our towels and calls me “Miss Isabella” like we're in some period drama.

 I stood there like an idiot deer caught in headlights, thighs clenched together for reasons I have no idea of, watching Dad’s big hands dig into her ass with ease growling something filthy against her neck, eww. I couldn't catch the exact words, but the tone was pure ownership. Romantic.

 Lila finished first, back snapping into the perfect arch. Wow. Mouth open in a silent scream, she quickly bit down on her lip to muffle. Dad followed right after, that low throaty groan tearing out of him as his hips jerked up into her, holding deep like he wanted to leave a permanent mark.

 Then, maybe good manners are still a thing in secret sex. She slid off him slowly, dropped to her knees between his legs, and took him back into her mouth. Gentle now. Almost sweet. Cleaning him up while he stroked her hair like she’d just aced a performance review.

 I finally remembered I had legs, I backed up quickly, nearly tripped over the hem of my robe like the graceful queen I am. And speed-walked back into the house, no looking back.

 I didn’t stop until I was leaning against the kitchen counter, breathing like I just ran from a crime scene. My reflection stared back at me from the dark window: wide green eyes, cheeks flushed, looking exactly like someone who just watched her father get his soul sucked out through his dick. 

Great way to start summer. Isabella.

 Truly Iconic.

Richard watched as Lila’s tongue was doing that slow, swirling thing he liked best. Christ, the girl was talented.

He leaned back against the lounge chair, his eyes half-closed, letting the aftershocks roll through him. She always knew how to stretch it out, gently, little flicks, no hurry.

His hand stayed tangled in her dark hair, thumb brushing her cheeks like she was something fragile instead of the walking bad decision he kept coming back to.

 She finally pulled off with a soft, satisfied pop and grinned up at him, lips shiny.

 “Better now. Mr Maxwell?”

 He chuckled, voice still rough. “You know it is.”

 Lila stood up, stretching like a cat that just got all the cream, completely unbothered about being naked under the pool lights. Her skin glowed mermaid-blue. She slipped her red thong back into place, grabbed her kimono, and didn't even bother tying it.

 “Tomorrow?”she asked, eyebrow cocked. 

 He hesitated. “Maybe. Depends on Camilla’s mood and board call at eight.”

 She pouted, so pretty and playful. “Don't make me wait too long. I get bored easily.”

He smirked. “I'll keep that in mind.”

 She leaned down, kissed him slowly, tasting like him and sin, then slipped out the side door toward the cottage, hips swaying like she knew he was watching.

 He stayed there another minute, catching his breath, pulling his trousers up, and buttoning his shirt halfway. The night air felt colder once she was gone. 

 He locked the door and headed back inside, already mentally running tomorrow’s schedule like nothing had happened. 

Camilla's POV

 I wasn’t asleep. I never really sleep when my husband, Richard’s out past midnight.

 I stood at the bedroom window in my satin nightgown, watching the little drama play out in the pool light. Like league, kimono flapping open, hips moving like she had just won the lottery. Then Richard, a few minutes later, shirt untucked, shoulders loose in that post-sex slouch I used to recognize when it was me he came home to.

 My nails pressed half-moons into my forearms. It wasn't jealousy, not anymore. 

 I had known for months. The cheap vanilla perfume on his collar. The faint bite mark he tried to hide with his shirt collar. I once found a black thong tucked in his golf bag like a teenager hiding contraband. I didn’t scream, I didn't throw anything. I just started collecting evidence.

 I walked away from the window and stood in front of the mirror. It showed a calm woman, perfect skin, perfect red lipstick even at two a.m., eyes sharp enough to cut diamonds. I opened the top drawer and ran my fingertip over the small silver key taped underneath. 

 A secret only I knew. The key to the safe in the study. I smiled at my reflection, small, cold, certain. 

 Tomorrow I’d kiss him on the cheek at breakfast. Ask Isabella how she slept. Smile at the twin's incoming texts from college. Play the perfect wife and the perfect stepmother.

But tonight. I made myself a quiet promise.

 If Richard wanted to play careless games, I would play better. And if he still didn't notice the way his gaze sometimes lingered on our youngest stepdaughter when he thought no one was watching…

 Well.

 He was about to learn exactly how much I noticed.

 Lila locked the cottage door behind her and leaned against it for a second, squealed excitedly like a teenager whose crush just smiled at her.

God, he felt so good. Goddamn good.

 She could still feel him in her, the way he growled her name like it hurt him to admit he needed her. She hated how much she liked being the secret he kept risking everything for. Hated it. Craved it. Same difference. 

 She took off the kimono and stepped into the tiny shower. Hot water hit the fresh bite mark on her neck, she hissed. Touched it gently, smiling despite herself. 

 He thought he was the one in control.

 How adorable.

 She dried off, crawled into her bed, and grabbed my phone.

 Lila opened hidden folder. Newest video thumbnail: Richard’s face mid-groan, eyes squeezed shut in that helpless, powerful way only men like him can manage. 

 She played five seconds, just long enough to hear that low, broken sound. Then closed it.

 It wasn't for blackmail. 

 Not yet.

 Just… insurance. Yeah.

A group chat message from Sasha—Isabella’s best friend.

*Brunch tomorrow? 11?*

Lila stared at the screen for a long moment.

Then She typed back:

*Sure. See you there.*

 

 She set the phone down, stared at the ceiling, and grinned into the dark. Because tonight she saw something else. Isabella in the doorway. She didn't scream. Didn't run away.

 She just stood there watching.

 For longer than she probably wanted to admit. And she gave her a show to hunt her.

 Lila laughed softly to herself.

 Oh, this summer was going to be fun.