"If you'd let , I'd have you screaming my na for hours—so long and so hard you'd be begging to stop. Is that sothing you'd want, Sasha?"
His words were bold, provocative, and shalessly direct—yet delivered with that signature confidence that made it hard to tell whether he was joking, seducing, or challenging her.
When Sasha heard those words, a shiver prickled across her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms.
She blinked once, then again, as if trying to shake off whatever spell had montarily co over her.
Ross Oakley wasn't even her type. Not in the slightest.
His features, while striking to so, didn't quite fit her usual tastes.
He wasn't traditionally handso—not in the chiseled, magazine-cover way she tended to go for. And yet…
She would be lying to herself if she claid the man had no pull. Because Ross Oakley didn't need classic good looks.
He had sothing far more dangerous—raw, undeniable charisma.
It clung to him like a second skin, dripping from every confident smirk and every effortless word that rolled off his tongue.
And it irritated her—deeply—that even after she and Kristine had cornered him with their sharpest tongues, throwing barbed insults ant to rattle him, he hadn't so much as flinched.
He simply sat there, legs casually crossed, his expression cool and amused, as if they were nothing more than mild entertainnt in an otherwise boring evening.
Sasha hated n who were too sure of themselves. The arrogance, the swagger, the way they acted like the world belonged to them—it all rubbed her the wrong way.
And yet, she found herself glancing at Ross again. Watching the way he held himself.
How he never looked away from her, not even for a second. The confidence wasn't forced. It was real. And that made it worse.
She would be a hypocrite to say she felt nothing.
n like Ross—dangerous, dominant, charismatic to the core—they were hard to ignore.
He had presence, the kind that filled the room and demanded attention without him needing to say a word.
Sasha wasn't blind. She recognized power when she saw it, and Ross wore it like a tailored suit.
It was just unfortunate, she mused bitterly, that he already had a harem of wives. Won fawned over him.
Threw themselves at him. And the worst part? He didn't even chase them.
They ca willingly, eager to orbit around his gravity. Sasha had no interest in becoming just another na on that list.
But that didn't an she couldn't have a little fun.
She leaned back, folding one leg over the other, her lips curling into a playful smirk.
"I'm a hard woman to please, Ross," she purred, her tone low and flirtatious. "You might not be able to afford my fetishes."
Ross's smile didn't waver. If anything, it widened. His eyes—dark, intense, and unwavering—traveled slowly over her face, pausing just a mont too long on her lips.
"I'm a man of money and riches," he said smoothly, his voice rich like velvet. "Say what you want. No price is too high for ."
The air between them grew heavier, charged with sothing unspoken.
Sasha's pulse quickened, but she kept her expression cool, unwilling to let him know he was getting to her.
Still, there was no denying it—he was dangerous. Not in the way most n were, but in the way only n like Ross Oakley could be.
The kind who could make you want to step into the fire just to see how long you could stand the heat.
And the worst part? Sasha was starting to wonder if she was already burning.
"Perfect. I might just have room for another boyfriend on my list," Sasha said with a teasing lilt, her lips curling into a devilish smile.
Ross chuckled, clearly entertained, and leaned back in his seat like a man who was exactly where he wanted to be.
With a wave of his hand, he ordered another round—sothing fancy, aged, and expensive—and as the drinks arrived, so did more laughter, more veiled flirtation, and surprisingly thoughtful conversation.
None of them had expected the night to unfold the way it did. Kristine had been prepared for a brief, awkward dinner—at best, a confrontation that ended in them leaving early.
Sasha had walked in ready to tear Ross apart with her words.
But Ross... he had other plans. He didn't just hold his own against them—he took control of the whole table, like a seasoned perforr stepping onto a familiar stage.
The three of them talked for hours. Ross moved effortlessly from playful to philosophical, from teasing to sincere.
He knew exactly when to make them laugh and when to drop just enough vulnerability to keep them intrigued. The man had a gift, and he used it well.
By the end of the night, even Kristine—usually the more reserved and skeptical of the two—had started to warm up to him. Not that she'd ever admit it aloud.
When Ross finally stood up, adjusting the cuffs of his designer jacket, he gave them both a charming smile.
"Ladies," he said smoothly, bowing his head just slightly, "thank you for a most... stimulating evening."
Then he was gone, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and a silence that stretched between the two won like a question neither of them wanted to ask first.
Kristine blinked. "What the hell just happened?"
Sasha leaned back in her chair, swirling the last of her wine. "We got played," she said, not sounding the least bit mad about it.
Kristine turned sharply to her. "What were you thinking?!"
Sasha tilted her head, pretending to think. "Hmm… probably that I could handle him."
"Handle him? Sasha, that man is dangerous," Kristine said, her voice a mix of disbelief and warning. "You were flirting with him all night!"
"And you weren't?" Sasha shot back, raising an eyebrow.
Kristine's cheeks turned pink. "I—what? No! I'm married!"
"Exactly," Sasha said with a sly smile. "Which is why I stepped in. He was eyeing you first, you know. I just did you a favor."
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