Evil MC's NTR Harem

Ella could not recall how she had left the club after that.

Her memory was a blur of flashing lights, pounding music, and the intoxicating heat of Ross's body pressed against hers.

Perhaps she had passed out from the sheer, overwhelming force of her orgasm, or maybe it was the way dozens of strangers had stared—some in awe, others in burning jealousy—as she was taken so openly and so thoroughly.

Perhaps it was both. All she knew for certain was that now, the world felt quieter.

The music was gone, the air cooler, and the chaos replaced by the steady, confident footsteps of the man beside her.

Her head rested on Ross's broad shoulder, his warmth seeping into her skin.

She clung to his muscular arm as if afraid that letting go would wake her from a dream.

The faint scent of him—clean, masculine, with that subtle undertone of dominance—filled her senses and made her heart pound all over again.

It was a scene that could ignite envy in the hearts of any man who saw it.

Ella was not merely beautiful—she was a masterpiece in full bloom, the kind of woman who could make time slow with a single glance.

Her hair spilled over Ross's arm like silk, her flushed cheeks betraying the pleasure she had just endured, and her lips—slightly parted as if still catching her breath—looked like they had been kissed into perfect softness.

She carried the aura of a forbidden blossom, and anyone who so much as glanced at her would feel an ache to possess her, to claim that sweetness for themselves.

Strangers passed them on the dimly lit street, some stealing discreet glances, others staring openly.

A young couple slowed their pace, the man's eyes glued to Ella until his own partner tugged him forward with a scowl.

Two women whispered to each other as Ross led her onward, their voices carrying just enough for Ella to catch a word or two—"goddess," "lucky," and "impossible" among them.

Ross seemed completely unfazed by the attention.

If anything, the faint smirk on his lips suggested he relished it.

His arm stayed firm under her grip, a silent reassurance that she was his and no one else's.

At one point, he slowed just enough to lower his head and murmur near her ear, his voice deep and teasing, "You walk like you're still feeling me inside you."

Ella's breath caught, her legs trembling as if to prove him right.

Her cheeks burned, but she didn't deny it. Instead, she tightened her hold on him, pressing closer, her voice barely more than a whisper, "Maybe I am."

Ross chuckled, low and satisfied, and without a word, he guided her down the street as if the entire world were theirs alone.

Of course, the universe had to be cruelly ironic.

Out of all moments, it chose now to ruin Ross's night.

"Hey, superstar."

A voice cut through the quiet street, lazy but dripping with arrogance.

Ross and Ella slowed to a stop.

Ahead of them, a young man in an expensive designer jacket stood in the center of the road, hands in his pockets, flanked by ten bulky men who looked like they were used to solving problems with their fists.

The glow from the streetlamps stretched their shadows across the pavement, making the group seem even larger and more menacing.

Ross's brow furrowed. He had been in a good mood, but that mood was quickly souring.

"Move." His tone was even, but there was a quiet weight behind it—a tone that made most people take a step back.

The young man didn't move. In fact, he grinned wider, tilting his head like a predator toying with prey.

"What if I say I don't want to? I saw what you did back in the club." His eyes wandered shamelessly over Ella, and his smirk deepened.

"And now I think I'd like a taste of your woman too. Wouldn't be fair if you just let us watch and not let us try the product, right?"

Ella stiffened beside Ross, her grip on his arm tightening, but Ross's face remained unreadable.

The young man was maybe in his mid-twenties—slicked-back hair, expensive watch gleaming under the lights, and the kind of cocky expression that screamed spoiled rich kid.

But before he could keep talking, one of the older, broader goons at his side stepped forward, his face pale under the orange glow of the lamps.

"Kenny," the man said in a low, urgent voice. "This isn't good. That's Ross Oakley. Your father wouldn't like you messing with a man like him."

The warning hung in the air like a cold draft.

A couple of the other goons shifted uncomfortably, exchanging wary glances.

But Kenny just laughed, brushing off the concern with a dismissive wave.

"Ross Oakley? So what? He's just some lucky punk who got famous for… what, scoring a few points in a basketball game and winning the lottery? He's filthy rich I know. Please. That doesn't make him untouchable."

His grin widened, but there was a flicker in his eyes—just enough to tell Ross he'd heard the rumors, even if he didn't believe them.

Ross's lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile.

"You're right," he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel.

"I'm not untouchable." He took a slow step forward, the air between them growing heavier with every inch he closed.

"But you? You're disposable."

A shiver rippled through the group.

Everyone wanted to see what Ross was about to do.

The air grew heavy with the kind of anticipation that made even the streetlights seem dimmer.

Some expected him to explode in violence, to lash out with the same ruthless speed they had heard about in whispers.

Instead, to their surprise, he simply reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number with casual precision—as if ordering a late-night meal, not dealing with a group of armed thugs.

The line clicked open, but there was silence on the other end.