Evil MC's NTR Harem

Ross stared at her, intrigued more than annoyed.

There was fire in her—controlled, but fierce.

He could see the challenge written all over her posture, her poise, her refusal to give an inch.

And Ross, being who he was, never walked away from a challenge.

Around them, the party continued, but the real game had just begun.

Ross smiled, that slow, confident grin that always came just before he delivered a blow cloaked in charm.

"You know," he began, his voice low and deliberate, "I like you, Joan."

Joan didn't hesitate. Her eyes remained fixed on his, cool and unflinching.

"A pity," she said flatly. "I can't say the same. I don't even know what you look like. For all I know, you're just some ugly guy hiding behind that mask you wear."

Ross chuckled softly, unfazed. "Maybe I am," he said. "But I didn't take you for someone who judges based on appearances alone. I figured you had more depth than that."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he leaned in before she could, his voice dropping into a whisper so quiet, so intimate, it sent a chill down her spine.

"But then again," Ross murmured at the edge of her ear, "maybe it doesn't matter what I look like. Because I know something else about you, Joan. Something deeper. I know you touch yourself every night. I know you come so hard when you hear the sound of my cock drilling into my women. Every single night."

Joan's breath caught. Her body went rigid for a moment—then trembled as if struck by a jolt of electricity.

Her hand instinctively tightened around her glass.

She darted a quick, panicked glance around the room, eyes wide, scanning the faces nearby to see if anyone had heard what he'd just said.

Most was looking at them.

But Ross was still there, inches away, watching her with a knowing smirk.

He hadn't raised his voice—he didn't need to. The words had landed like a blade.

Her cheeks flushed, whether from embarrassment or anger, she wasn't sure.

She opened her mouth again, a retort on her lips—but the words didn't come.

Ross leaned back slightly, eyes locked on hers, and took a slow sip of his wine.

"You don't have to admit it," he said quietly. "But I can see it in your eyes."

Joan stared at him, chest rising and falling more quickly now, her composure rattled.

For the first time that night, Ross had cracked her mask.

And he knew it.

"So what?" Joan said, her voice hushed and almost too soft to hear over the pulsing beat of the party.

"I'm not the only one who does it. Everyone here comes to the lewd sounds your girls make every night. It's human nature."

She didn't look at him when she said it.

Her eyes were fixed on her half-empty glass of Coke, her fingers tightening around it.

Her words were brave, but her delivery betrayed her—they were light, rushed, like she was trying to spit them out before her heart caught up.

Her cheeks were already tinted pink, not from alcohol, but from the unbearable knowledge of how exposed she suddenly felt.

Joan glanced around, panic barely restrained, checking to see if anyone was listening.

The cameras might not have been close, but that didn't mean the microphones weren't.

And this was a show, after all. A reality show, watched live by millions.

She imagined her family, her friends, strangers on the internet dissecting her every move, every glance.

Ross, on the other hand, was calm. Cool. Completely in control.

He leaned in again, his lips so close they nearly brushed her ear, his voice dropping to a level only she could hear—intimate and dark.

"But I know more than that," he whispered.

Joan froze.

"I know your secret," Ross continued, his voice slow, like a spell being cast.

"You're not just listening to the sounds. You're not just imagining. You're fantasizing… about being one of them. About being taken. About being dominated."

Joan's lips parted slightly, and her breath hitched again. She hated that sound.

Hated that she couldn't stop it.

It betrayed something she didn't want anyone—especially not him—to know.

"You want someone to take away your control," Ross murmured. "To make you let go. To take you apart and put you back together again."

His words sank deep. Too deep.

"I can give you that, Joan. Come to me tonight… and I'll give you what you really want. I'll be your master… and you'll be mine."

Joan stiffened. The tension in her body was almost unbearable.

She was holding her breath without realizing it, her fingers white-knuckled around her glass.

Her whole body felt hot, not just from embarrassment or anger—but from something far more dangerous.

From recognition. From temptation.

"You're sick," she whispered. "Sick and delusional."

Her voice cracked slightly as she said it, the edge she tried to summon falling short.

Ross's smile only grew.

"Maybe," he said, leaning back slowly, eyes locked on her. "But I'll still be waiting."

Joan didn't respond. She couldn't. Her throat felt tight.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, too loud, too fast.

She stared straight ahead, blinking once, twice, trying to pull herself back together.

But Ross wasn't done.

"You can fight it all you want," he said, standing now, brushing down the front of his shirt casually. "But I know how this ends. You'll come."

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away—back into the crowd, back to the women who reached for him with eager smiles, back to the comfort of his harem and the power he wielded so effortlessly.

Joan sat frozen, barely breathing.

The music pounded. The lights danced. Laughter bubbled around her.

But inside her, something had shifted—something uncomfortable, dangerous, and deeply personal. Her lips were dry.

Her skin prickled with heat. She hated that her thighs pressed together, tense and restless.

She hated that he had gotten to her.

And yet… a part of her, buried deep and wrapped in chains of denial, whispered the truth she wasn't ready to admit.

He was right.

She couldn't help herself.

And now, every second that passed brought her closer to a choice she swore she'd never make.

Would she go to him?

Could she resist?