Sandra leaned both hands on the cold porcelain sink, her grip tightening as she stared at the fiery figure reflected in the mirror.

The woman looking back at her had smoky eye makeup that made her dark eyes glimmer with a seductive intensity. Her lashes curled dramatically, framing her gaze like delicate feathers. Her soft, glossy lips caught the light, beckoning attention. The plunging V-neckline revealed smooth, fair roundness, with a cleavage that seemed almost unfathomable.

It was her—she knew it was her. Yet, at the same time, it felt like a stranger had taken over her reflection.

Before today, Sandra couldn't have imagined herself dressing this way. The last time she had worn something remotely daring—like the red dress Ryo had sent her—it had left her feeling awkward, uncertain where to place her hands or how to stand.

Sure, every girl loved pretty clothes, and Sandra was no exception. Yet, her relationship with beauty had always been fraught with doubt. From a young age, Sandra had felt that beauty was something intangible, always slipping just out of her grasp.

She could chase it, try to replicate it in her art—sketching elegant figures, painting ethereal faces, and capturing the allure she admired in others. But deep inside, she believed she could only ever approach beauty, like an admirer standing outside a grand palace, never truly stepping in.

Moya, with her enigmatic allure, was like a water nymph singing on a reef, coaxing Sandra to look at herself in a new light.

That night, Moya pulled Sandra in front of a full-length mirror. Her hands moved over her own body in a way that was almost reverent.

"Am I beautiful?" She asked.

Sandra nodded without hesitation. Moya's beauty was undeniable.

Moya took Sandra's hand, guiding it gently over the perfect contours of her form, tracing lines that spoke of confidence and power. 

Then, with deliberate care, Moya directed Sandra's hand back to her own body. A surge of emotions—embarrassment and curiosity—washed over Sandra as Moya making her confront something she had always avoided: the truth of herself.

"A woman's body is the most beautiful thing in the world," Moya said softly, her gaze meeting Sandra's in the mirror. "God's finest creation."

Sandra had heard herself say similar words to her students in art classes, where she spoke of anatomy and proportion. But they had always been just that—words. In her eyes, beauty was something other women had—women like April, whose bodies matched the golden ratios laid out in textbooks.

But Moya had shaken her head at those thoughts, as if reading Sandra's mind. "You are beautiful too," she said with conviction. "Every confident woman is beautiful."

"And hiding it would be a waste." Moya added, her tone shifting to a teasing reprimand. "Beauty isn't meant to be locked away—it's meant to be shared, celebrated."

Standing behind Sandra, Moya gently removed the last piece of her covering, her movements deliberate and reverent, like a pilgrim before a sacred relic. Her touch was firm yet tender, a reflection of her deep understanding of the human body—knowledge rooted not just in her pre-med studies but in her profound appreciation for its form and function.

Sandra shivered as unfamiliar sensations coursed through her. It felt as though Moya had unlocked something dormant within her, an unspoken energy lying in wait. Every nerve seemed to awaken, every pore to breathe anew. The rush of warmth surged through her, climbing from the base of her spine to the crown of her head, leaving her breathless and lightheaded.

Finally, Moya's hands found their place at Sandra's waist, and with a gentle sway, she guided Sandra to move in rhythm with the soft, sultry music playing in the background. Sandra stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. It was like watching a metamorphosis—her former self shedding its skin, revealing a radiant, confident woman beneath.

"A woman's radiance comes from her confidence," Moya murmured, her voice low and melodic, as though sharing a sacred truth. "The attention of men is the nourishment that makes a woman more beautiful."

"Men are simple creatures," Moya continued, her tone tinged with amused authority. "They're like sunflowers, always turning toward the brightest light. And you, Sandra, are their goddess."

"You can give," Moya whispered, her hands tightening ever so slightly on Sandra's waist, "or you can take. They're like children asking for candy. Only the well-behaved, lovable ones deserve affection..."

Women were vain, and Sandra was no exception. Stepping into The Roxy, she felt the subtle shift within herself. Under the admiring gazes of countless men, she began to exude a natural allure, as though their attention amplified her radiance.

She wasn't used to this kind of attention—not in this overwhelming, all-encompassing way. Yet, with Moya beside her, treating her like a queen on her coronation day, Sandra couldn't help but absorb some of the confidence and charm that radiated from her friend.

Still, Sandra differed in one crucial way from Moya and the other women at The Roxy: she didn't care about how the other men saw her. Their glances, murmured compliments, and even their attempts to draw nearer—all of it was irrelevant. What mattered, the only thing that truly reached her, was the searing intensity of a single gaze.

It was Arden's.

Sandra could feel it on her back, a heat so palpable it seemed to bore into her, threatening to pierce straight through her resolve. Arden's eyes burned with a force that was impossible to ignore, demanding her attention even when she fought to remain indifferent.

Her newfound confidence faltered. A twinge of uncertainty tugged at her. She began to waver, questioning everything. 

Why had she gone through with this transformation, unveiling a version of herself she barely recognized? 

Did Arden truly care, as Moya had claimed?

Sandra smoothed down her dress, tugging at the hem to ensure everything was in place. Her black curls cascaded forward, partially veiling the neckline that left her feeling a touch too exposed. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped out of the bathroom.

Her mind swirled with unanswered questions as she navigated the dim hallway, her head bowed. Turning a corner, she almost walked straight into someone's chest. 

Startled, she quickly stepped back and veered left to avoid further embarrassment. But the person mirrored her movement. Frowning slightly, she shifted to the right, only to find the same thing happening again.

"Sorry... ah—" Sandra started, but the words caught in her throat when the person suddenly grabbed her shoulders.

Before she could fully grasp what was happening, these large hands pressed her firmly against the wall. The cool surface met her bare back with a jolt. Her shoulders stiffening as she looked up, wide-eyed and startled.

Arden loomed over her, his face illuminated by the ceiling lamp, casting angular shadows across his features. His scent—familiar cologne mixed with a faint trace of woman's perfume—wrapped around her, clouding her thoughts and leaving her senses reeling.

"What do you want? Let me go," Sandra demanded, her voice calm despite the rapid pounding of her heart.

"What do I want?" Arden countered, his intense gaze lingering on her face. "I should be asking you the same question. Are you really in such a rush to find another man?"

Sandra narrowed her eyes, a cold smirk curling on her lips. "Whether I'm looking for a man or not, what does it have to do with you?"

Arden's hand, which had been gripping her shoulder, trailed deliberately down the curve of her bare back, his fingers grazing her smooth skin with an electrifying touch. When his hand settled firmly on her waist, his grip tightened, drawing her closer.

His voice lowered, a dark, teasing edge threading through his words. "Then let me see just how desperate you really are."

The kiss carried a familiar dominance that overwhelmed Sandra in an instant. The breath, unmistakably Arden's, wrapped around her, coaxing and consuming all at once. Her body tensed instinctively, but resistance was fleeting—a brief flicker before she yielded to the force of him, allowing herself to be overtaken like an unguarded city falling to an unstoppable siege. The faint taste of peach from her lip gloss mingled with the heat of their entwined tongues, sending warmth cascading through her, sinking deep into her very core.

Her slender arms wound around his neck, fingers threading into his hair with deliberate intent. She found the subtle ridges where his hair extensions were anchored and gave a teasing tug. The sharp pull sent a jolt through him—an electric spark igniting something raw and primal.

Arden's response was immediate. He drew her closer, eliminating the last sliver of space between them, leaving no room for retreat. His hands traced boldly down her waist, slipping beneath the hem of her dress without hesitation.

His fingers brushed against her bare skin, then paused at the discovery of a slender band—just a thin strip of fabric, almost nonexistent. A flicker of realization passed through his eyes, quickly replaced by something darker, more possessive. No wonder the sleek curve of her skirt had been uninterrupted, leaving him entranced and wanting more.

"Little slut," he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with a raw, unrestrained desire. His tongue traced the curve of her mouth before plunging deep, devouring her. One hand slid lower, cupping her firm curves, kneading with a possessiveness that made her gasp.

"Don't...hmm..." Sandra barely managed a protest. The hallway wasn't exactly private, and at any moment, someone could walk by. But before she could gather another word, his mouth found hers again, silencing her completely.

His kiss was relentless, overwhelming, and consuming, leaving her no room for resistance or escape. It was a storm of intensity, pulling her under, stripping away every fragment of her defenses until all she could do was surrender.

His hands grew bolder, roaming with effortless ease. Sandra lost in the haze of Arden's touch, barely registered the moment the clasp of her Nu Bra came undone.

A few passersby slowed their steps, drawn to the striking pair locked in a heated embrace. Arden, tall and commanding, exuded an unmistakable air of dominance, while Sandra, with her flushed cheeks and dazed, intoxicating gaze, radiated irresistible allure.

Scattered whistles and murmured cheers rippled through the hallway—amused, approving, and entirely uninvited. The sound grated against Arden's nerves, an unwelcome intrusion that momentarily cut through his focus.

Without breaking the kiss, his grip around Sandra tightened. In one fluid motion, he pivoted sharply, steering them toward the nearest door.

He didn't bother checking whether it led to the men's or women's restroom—he simply pushed through, his mind consumed by a singular purpose. The door swung open with a jolt, and with swift, unrelenting intent, he backed her into the first available stall.

The lock clicked into place, a small but decisive sound that sealed them in, cocooned from prying eyes.

There was no time for hesitation, no space for questions like your place or mine. Arden wasn't willing to wait another second. His need for her was immediate—insatiable.

He tugged her red dress down to her waist, the Nu Bra discarded carelessly to the side. With his fingers still tangled with her tongue, his head buried eagerly in her breasts. He didn't know what kind of lotion she had put on, but her skin felt impossibly sweet and soft beneath his touch, like silk infused with honey.

Sandra tilted her head back, her gaze drifting to the intricate reliefs carved into the ceiling. She looked like a fish gasping for air, her lips slightly parted as she drew in shallow breaths.

His hot, damp lips trailed over her flat stomach, leaving a searing path as they ventured downward. His nimble fingers worked with deliberate slowness, peeling away the skirt that clung tightly to her curves, unveiling her inch by inch.

Arden lifted one of her legs, guiding her foot to rest on the small platform built into the wall of the compartment, designed for holding personal items. His tongue licked over her inner thigh as a surge ran through her body. Her heels trembled slightly, the delicate stiletto wobbling precariously, as though her legs might give out beneath her at any moment.

All over her body, except for the thong, which was no different with or without it, she was left with only two flaming red heels. Her long, curly hair clung to her damp chest, the strands tracing delicate patterns against her skin, while a dazed, bewildered look lingered in her eyes.

And though Arden remained fully clothed, he looked as if he were engulfed in flames, his smoldering gaze burning with an intensity that threatened to consume him whole.

A thin wall was all that separated them from the bustling world outside. The faint creak of doors opening and closing, fragments of laughter, the murmur of conversations, and the steady trickle of water from the sinks filtered into the cramped space. Each noise prickled their senses, heightening the tension, making the intimacy of the moment feel both exposed and dangerously exhilarating.

Then, cutting through the ambient noise like a blade, came a voice—low, thick with a heavy Scandinavian accent.

"Sasa?"

Rod.

His tone was uncertain, searching.

Arden's arm hooked in the crook of Sandra's leg, adjusted his position, deliberately pushed forward like a punishment, buried deeply into her body, and then moved without mercy.

Sandra bit her lip, suppressing the sounds threatening to escape. Her breaths came in sharp, uneven bursts as she strained to remain silent.

Arden leaned in, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered in a low, teasing voice, "Little slut—afraid he'll hear you?"

Actually, it didn't matter whether Sandra made a sound or not—the steady, rhythmic rattle of the cubicle door against its frame was unmistakable. Anyone outside who heard it would immediately understand what was happening.

Sandra felt her face burning. She avoided Arden's gaze, turning her head to the side and exposing a section of her slender neck. Beneath the faint layer of concealer, remnants of bruises still lingered—faint, but visible.

Arden's movements suddenly slowed down.

Sandra sensed the shift in his mood and looked up in panic. He didn't say a word. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her—gently this time. Matching the rhythm, his lips brushed hers in soft, fleeting touches, then moved to the corners of her mouth, her chin, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her closed eyelids, and finally, her forehead.

"Sandra..." It was the first time in a while that he had called her by name. His voice was low and husky, carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability. He exhaled softly, his breath warm against her skin. "What am I going to do with you?"

🎬🔀

Arden sat half-naked on the toilet, the dim light casting sharp lines across his toned frame. The woman in his arms wore his T-shirt, the oversized fabric swallowing her delicate figure. She held two soft silicone pads in her hands, pressing them playfully against his forehead before arranging his bangs to cover them, transforming him into a mischievous demon from some ancient myth.

"Naughty," Arden murmured, his tone indulgent. He caught her wrist gently, bringing her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss. His eyes gleamed with affection, quiet and unguarded, reserved only for her.

Sandra shifted slightly on his lap, her bare skin brushing against the rough fabric of his jeans. The friction sent an unexpected shiver through her, and she let out a small sound of discomfort.

"Uncomfortable?" Arden teased, his hand moving to pat her lightly on her butt. His voice held a mix of amusement and mock scolding. "Silly girl, running around flaunting yourself when you're not even fully healed. Lucky for you, it's me."

He paused, his lips curving into a smirk as his fingers traced lazy circles along her lower back. "With that petite frame of yours, if you'd actually gone out with Rod, that Viking hulk wouldn't have known how to handle you without crumbling you up."

Sandra's cheeks flushed. She reached up, tugging the silicone pad from his forehead down over his eyes in retaliation.

Arden let out a low chuckle. He pulled the Nu Bra off and tossed them onto her crumpled little red dress on the floor. His hand slid under her chin, his grip firm yet possessive as he tilted her face toward his. Before she had a chance to react, he claimed her lips in a deep, consuming kiss.

Arden's relentless onslaught was momentarily interrupted by a loud clatter—Sandra's high heel accidentally striking the side wall of the stall. The sharp echo reverberated in the confined space, snapping her out of the hazy daze.

He paused, a sly smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced down at her, one brow raised in amusement. "Careful, kitten," he murmured, his voice low and laced with mischief. "You're drawing attention again."

His fingers trailed down her leg, leaving a searing path of heat as he lifted her calf with deliberate slowness. His touch skimmed over the delicate curve of her ankle before settling just above the strap of her fiery red high heel. His gaze lingered, admiring the way the stiletto accentuated the graceful allure of her foot.

The thought of these beautiful long legs had wrapped tightly around his waist tonight sent a rush of heat through him. His mind and body were alight again, a heady mix of desire and impulse flooding his senses.

Another round wouldn't be a problem for him—his stamina was more than up for the task. The real question lingered unspoken: whether Sandra, already teetering on the edge of exhaustion, could still endure the fiery intensity he had in store.

After resting enough, Sandra stood up to put her dress back on. Arden, lounging nearby, made no effort to assist her; instead, his hands roamed mischievously over her body, creating more of a hindrance than help.

"Arden," she warned, swatting his hand away as she struggled to straighten her dress.

He merely chuckled, unbothered. But the moment she was done, he grabbed his t-shirt and slipped it over her head.

"What are you doing?" Sandra huffed, struggling to poke her head through the neckline.

Arden leaned in, stealing a quick kiss from her lips before murmuring against them, "From now on, you're not going out dressed like this, flaunting yourself in front of others." His voice dropped, a dark promise laced in his tone. "If I catch you doing it again, I'll make sure you're properly punished."

Sandra batted her lashes provocatively. "Then maybe I should dress like this every day—give you plenty of reasons."

"Little minx," Arden muttered, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. Without warning, he bent down and swept her up into his arms effortlessly. 

"If that's the case," his grip tightening as he smirked down at her, "I'm afraid you won't even have the chance to leave the house."

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