Just looking at Ross made Sarah's heart skip a beat, her breath catch in her throat.
"God..." she whispered under her breath, before quickly shaking her head, ashamed of her own thoughts.
Forcing herself to move, Sarah rose quietly from the sofa.
Her earlier outfit lay discarded on the floor, completely ruined—stained with sweat, wrinkled, and splattered with his seed.
She couldn't wear that again, not if she wanted to hold on to even a shred of dignity.
Thank heavens she always kept a spare set of clothes in her office for emergencies.
She slipped into the private storage cabinet, pulling out a fresh blouse and skirt.
The act of dressing steadied her somewhat, though her hands trembled as she buttoned up her shirt.
She could still feel Ross's lips on her breasts, still see his hand gripping her hips, still hear his low, commanding voice echoing in her ears.
Every detail refused to leave her.
Once fully dressed, she took a moment before the mirror on the wall.
She smoothed her hair, pinched her cheeks for color, and tried to compose herself.
The woman who stared back at her looked conflicted—caught between shame, desire, and something deeper she couldn't quite name.
Her eyes drifted once more to Ross.
He was still asleep, his sheer presence filling the room even in silence.
A part of her wanted to run again, to flee like she had last time.
It would be easier—pretend it didn't happen, bury herself in work, and hope to forget.
But this time, she knew she couldn't.
The way he had taken her, the way her body had responded—it wasn't something she could simply erase.
And she was tired of lying to herself.
Drawing a deep breath, Sarah clenched her fists at her sides and finally made her choice.
She would not run this time.
She would face Ross, speak to him, and confront what had grown between them.
Her voice, soft but steady, broke the silence of the room as she finally addressed him.
"Ross... we need to talk."
Ross stirred the moment Sarah spoke, his eyes snapping open as though he had been waiting for her voice all along.
A lazy, knowing smile curved across his lips, the kind that made Sarah's chest tighten with both anger and dread.
"I know, Sarah," he said smoothly, his voice calm yet threaded with a quiet authority.
"But let me at least put on my clothes first. I feel... underdressed for this kind of conversation."
He rose from the chair with unhurried ease, his powerful frame illuminated by the muted light spilling through the blinds.
Without shame, he gathered his scattered garments, slipping each piece back on as though donning armor.
The sweat stains, the musky scent of sex still clinging to him, and the faint marks of their wild encounter seemed less like evidence of lust and more like trophies he carried proudly.
To Ross, they weren't something to hide—they were proof of conquest. Proof of possession.
When he finished dressing, he stood tall and faced her.
Hours ago, they had been tangled in the throes of ecstasy, their bodies and voices joined in raw intimacy.
Now, there was space between them—cold, sharp, and unbearably heavy.
Sarah's heart clenched at the contrast. Her lips trembled as she tried to hold herself together.
"What do you want from me, Ross? You've already taken what you wanted. Isn't that enough?" Her voice cracked, and tears welled in her eyes despite her attempt to appear strong.
"Leave me in peace now. Don't come back into my life again. I... I have a husband. And you—you already have so many wives. Why are you doing this to me?"
Ross's gaze didn't waver, didn't soften.
If anything, her words only sharpened the intensity in his eyes.
He took a slow step forward, then another, closing the distance between them until she felt trapped by his presence alone.
His voice, deep and unyielding, resonated like a hammer striking against her fragile defenses.
"Don't lie to yourself, Sarah. You know as well as I do that what happened wasn't some accident. It wasn't weakness. It was truth." He tilted his head slightly, studying her tear-streaked face with an expression that was both tender and merciless.
"I can give you what your husband never could. And you—" he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over her cheek, "you screamed my name in joy. Not his. Mine."
Sarah's tears spilled over, sliding down her cheeks. She wanted to deny it, to call him a liar, to push him away with everything she had left.
But her body betrayed her—her heart pounded, her breath came in shallow bursts, and deep within her, she knew Ross was right.
Every fiber of her being still remembered his touch, his dominance, the way he had driven her past the edge again and again until she couldn't think of anything but him.
"Stop..." she whispered weakly, her voice a fragile thread. "Please... just stop..."
But Ross didn't stop.
He reached out, cupping her face in his strong, calloused hands, his thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that streaked her flushed skin.
His touch was gentle, almost reverent, but beneath it lay the undeniable weight of possession.
"Even if you wish it, Sarah," he said softly, his eyes locking onto hers with unwavering certainty, "you can't go back. Nothing will ever be the same now. Not with you... not with me. That line was crossed the moment you surrendered yourself to me. And you did it willingly."
Her knees weakened, her hands trembling as she raised them to his chest, intending to push him away—but her palms lingered there, pressed against the warmth of his body.
She felt the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath her touch, and her own heart betrayed her, racing wildly in response.
Ross leaned down, closing the last sliver of distance between them.
"Face it, Sarah. You belong to me now. No matter how much you fight it, no matter how much you deny it—your body has already chosen."