Stepping out of the bathroom after handling Isabella's needs (capital N, let's be real), I let the whole Dark Lord of Sexual Salvation routine dissolve. In its place? Regular Peter Carter—well, as regular as a genetically enhanced demigod of charm and destruction can look in a high school body in La Cherie bathroom hallway.
Still not hot. Still not lethal, on the outside that anyone would underestimate me. Just not actively glowing with infernal lust energy.
Back to business.
Because things? Yeah. They're about to spiral faster than Diddy at a deposition.
My brain—currently juiced with post-orgasmic clarity and IQ levels that would make Einstein feel like a Walmart greeter—kicked into overdrive. The situation was, in polite terms, spiraling into a full-blown empire-building sexpocalypse.
Let's review.
I had three women orbiting me like planets addicted to my gravitational pull.
