Ricardo Almada was twenty-five years old and the kind of beauty that didn’t go unnoticed. Golden skin like summer, unruly brown hair, and eyes of an impossible green that seemed to whisper secrets with every blink. But what made him truly dangerous wasn’t just the billboard-model face, nor the Olympic-athlete body—it was the magnetism, a truly incredible gift. A carnal charisma, a scent of sin that hung in the air whenever he entered any room. And the worst part: he didn’t do anything. He didn’t need to. While other men sweated to get a phone number, Ricardo sweated not to be dragged into bathrooms, locker rooms, or meeting rooms. It…