Chapter 665: Chapter 665 Glutton
Their bodies found a rhythm, instinctive and wild, as if the world had shrunk down to the space between them.
Ti lost all aning.
Again and again, they ca together, never fully separating, tangled in limbs and sheets, sweat and moans.
The bed rocked beneath them, the room filled with the sound of their passion—skin slapping, muffled gasps, the creak of the mattress, and the wet, intoxicating sound of their bodies eting over and over again.
Sasha’s moans grew louder with each round.
“Ahhhh…”
“Ohhhh…”
“Ughhhh…”
Her cries echoed off the walls, raw and lodic, mixing with Ross’s deep, ragged groans.
Sotis she scread his na. Sotis she could only whimper as another orgasm tore through her, her body sensitive and overstimulated but never wanting to stop.
He flipped her over, took her from behind, made her ride him, held her tight as she ca against his chest.
There was no rush, no hesitation—only hunger, only heat.
When the sun began to dip beyond the horizon, their bodies were still locked together.
Exhausted but unsatisfied, aching but fulfilled, they clung to each other as if they could fuse into one.
Between slow kisses and whispered nas, they kept going—exploring every part of each other, loving and lusting until even the air around them felt heavy with heat.
By the ti they finally collapsed, breathless and spent, the sheets were soaked, their bodies covered in sweat and release.
Sasha lay sprawled across Ross’s chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles along his skin, their legs tangled together.
“I lost count,” she murmured, lips brushing against his collarbone.
Ross chuckled, voice hoarse and low. “Good. We’re not done yet.”
And just like that, his hands slid down her back, and the fire sparked all over again.
They spent an entire week locked away from the world, as if ti itself had paused just for them.
The curtains stayed drawn, the door remained shut, and their phones rarely left the bedside table—except for the occasional picture Sasha snapped, capturing monts of breathless pleasure or quiet intimacy.
Ross was an animal in bed—fierce, focused, insatiable. But he wasn’t just rough.
He was skilled, almost dangerously so. Every touch, every kiss, every movent felt calculated to unravel Sasha completely.
He knew her body better than she did by the end of the first night.
And by the second, she had surrendered entirely, giving herself over to him again and again, each ti with more hunger than before.
Sasha, for all her inexperience, was no shy flower.
She adapted quickly, her desire growing alongside his. She learned how to tease him, how to match his rhythm, how to push him to the edge.
Together, they were volatile—hot, reckless, and explosive. It wasn’t just sex. It was an inferno.
The bedfra broke by the third night. A lamp crashed to the floor not long after.
They laughed between kisses, tangled up in blankets, their bodies aching and marked, but always ready for more.
They barely ate. Barely slept. And when they did, it was in each other’s arms, completely spent, only to wake up hours later, their hands already searching, craving another round.
By the end of the week, their passion had left a trail of broken furniture, ruined sheets, and bruises that Sasha wore like dals.
But more than that, it left her with a boldness she hadn’t felt before—a desire to claim Ross, publicly and unapologetically.
She started with a single photo: a dimly lit shot of her curled up on his chest, the sharp lines of his jaw visible above her head, his hand tangled in her hair.
The caption was simple: mine.
The reactions were instant.
Thousands of likes poured in. Comnts flooded her feed. Her followers doubled overnight.
Then ca more pictures—shots of them lying in bed together, their bare skin on display, though just enough was hidden to avoid censorship.
One image, of Ross gripping her hips while she sat astride him, was so provocative it nearly broke the internet.
People couldn’t get enough. And they couldn’t look away.
Ross had always been a mystery—a man whispered about in elite circles, rumored to have lovers in every city, his na often paired with scandal and power.
But now, he was being seen in ways no one had before—vulnerable, possessive, intimate. And it was all through Sasha’s lens.
The world went wild.
“OMG! Ross did it again!”
“Who is she? And how did she ta him?”
“He’s got himself a new woman—and she’s not afraid to show it!”
“Damn, he doesn’t change. Still the sa arrogant bastard—and sohow even hotter.”
People began digging into Sasha’s past. Every detail was examined. Where she ca from, what she did before him, what made her special.
Photos of her old life surfaced—modest, quiet, unassuming.
The contrast only made the new Sasha more fascinating.
She had transford in front of the world’s eyes, from nobody to the woman who captured Ross.
Speculation was constant.
“Is this real?”
“Is she just another fling?”
“Why does he look at her like that in every photo?”
Despite the gossip, the scrutiny, the drama swirling around them, Sasha didn’t flinch. She posted what she wanted, when she wanted.
She wore Ross’s shirts in her selfies, showed off hickeys like trophies, and even teased their followers with captions like: Round five incoming. Wish us luck.
Ross, typically private and guarded, didn’t stop her. In fact, he seed to enjoy it.
He’d smirk at the cara, kiss her shoulder mid-shot, or slide his hand into the fra in a way that made fans lose their minds.
The dia picked it up next.
Talk shows, blogs, celebrity gossip channels—everyone wanted a piece of the story. Reporters camped outside their building.
Paparazzi offered money for clearer pictures. Sasha’s DMs were a battlefield of admiration, envy, and vulgarity.
Yet, through it all, the two remained wrapped up in each other, seemingly untouched by the chaos outside.
And behind closed doors, their world remained exactly as it was—dark, breathless, and endlessly on fire.
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