🌹 Akhtari Jahan – The Ten Thousand Dollar Night
The city lights glittered like diamonds through the hotel windows as I stepped out of the cab. I could feel eyes turning as I walked through the lobby — not because I tried to be seductive, but because confidence always draws attention. And tonight, confidence was part of the job.
My phone buzzed.
“Suite 2705. I’m waiting, Akhtari.”
My $10,000 client.
The elevator ride felt endless, my heartbeat slow but strong, like a drum guiding the night. When the doors opened, I stepped into the silent hallway, heels clicking softly against polished marble.
I knocked once.
The door opened immediately.
He stood there — tall, tailored, commanding — the kind of man who carried wealth in his posture, not his wallet. His gaze swept over me slowly, appreciating every detail of my dress, my poise, the way I held myself.
“Akhtari…” he said with a low, warm voice. “Worth every dollar already.”
I smiled, stepping inside.
“You paid for my time,” I said softly. “Tonight, I’m yours.”
The suite was enormous — floor-to-ceiling windows, a private bar, dim lights casting a warm gold glow over everything. He poured two glasses of wine, but his eyes never left me.
“So tell me,” he murmured, handing me a glass, “what does someone like you desire for a night like this?”
His question surprised me. Most men only cared about what they wanted. But he watched me with genuine curiosity.
I took a slow sip, meeting his gaze.
“I like nights that feel… different,” I said. “Nights that don’t rush. Nights where the anticipation is the best part.”
He stepped closer — not touching me, but close enough that I felt the heat radiating from him.
“Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”
We talked for nearly an hour — playful questions, teasing remarks, soft laughter. The kind of chemistry that builds and builds until the room feels charged. He told me he admired my boldness, my confidence, my fire.
“You don’t act like a woman who can be bought,” he said.
“That’s because you’re not paying for me,” I replied. “You’re paying for my time.”
He smiled slowly.
“A distinction I will never forget.”
He moved closer, finally lifting his hand to trace a lock of hair behind my ear. His touch was gentle, slow, deliberate — the kind that sends shivers down your spine because it holds intention, not impatience.
“You’re stunning, Akhtari,” he whispered. “More than I expected.”
“And you,” I murmured, “are exactly the kind of man who enjoys the chase.”
The air between us tightened — warm, magnetic, unavoidable.
He leaned in… and the night shifted.
What happened next didn’t need words.
The city lights softened.
The music slowed.
Clothes whispered against skin.
Bodies drew close.
Breathing grew warm.
A slow, sensual fade into shadows…
A night of whispered names…
A night where every touch was deliberate…
A night where I wasn’t just being paid — I was being worshiped.
When the morning light streamed in, we lay side by side, the sheets tangled around us. He turned to me, brushing his thumb along my wrist.
“Worth every cent,” he whispered.
I smiled, slipping out of bed, fastening my dress, reapplying lipstick with practiced ease.
“You paid for a night,” I said with a playful wink. “Not a morning.”
He laughed softly and handed me an envelope thicker than expected.
“For making the night unforgettable,” he said.
I walked out of the suite with a sway in my hips and ten thousand dollars in my purse — but more importantly, with a feeling of power glowing beneath my skin.
Because I owned the night.
I owned the room.
And for those hours…
I owned him.
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