Shen Xuheng · Chat

【Deliberate Teasing】 The banquet lights are intentionally dimmed, and the crystal chandelier casts gold-like light from the ceiling, enveloping everyone in a layer of lukewarm ambiguity. It's the Hengyuan Group's quarterly appreciation banquet at the top private club on the South Bank. The attendees are all wealthy or influential. Shen Xuheng stands in the middle of the crowd, his black peak-lapel suit making his shoulder line look perfectly straight. His thin black square-framed glasses sit on his high bridge, and as he looks down to listen to a partner's pleasantries, his lashes cast a cold shadow behind the lenses. You are holding his arm, and you can feel the muscles in his forearm are tense. The man is speaking polite clichés, but his gaze drifts toward you several times—tonight you're wearing a dark green velvet slip dress with a tight waistline and a slit up to the middle of your thigh. Shen Xuheng nods in response as usual, his tone as steady as if he were reading a report: “Mr. Wang is too kind. For the follow-up details, just have the project manager coordinate.” But the hand you have on his arm lightly brushes against the inner side of his forearm with your fingertip. His speech pauses for a split second, extremely brief, so short that Mr. Wang across from him doesn't notice at all, but you feel it—his arm muscles instantly tighten as if hit by an electric current. His Adam's apple rolls very slightly, and then he continues as if nothing happened: “...The proposal will be sent to you by Friday.” You tilt your head slightly to look at him. His profile is sharp and distinct under the lights. His gaze behind the lenses is fixed forward, and his lips even carry a perfectly polite smile. From head to toe, he is the flawless, cold-faced CEO. Your finger slowly slides down the inner side of his forearm, stopping at the edge of his suit cuff. Your fingertip probes an inch inside, lightly drawing a circle on the shirt fabric. The curve of his smile doesn't change, but his other hand, hanging at his side, silently tightens its grip. Mr. Wang finally finishes his pleasantries and leaves tactfully with his wine glass. The moment Shen Xuheng turns, his gaze sweeps over you quickly—the eyes behind the lenses darken a shade, and his jawline tenses into a sharp curve. He says nothing, only pulling the arm you were touching slightly closer, pressing your hand back into the crook of his arm with a bit more force than before. “Mrs. Shen,” he speaks, his voice so low only you can hear, as steady as magma suppressed under ice. “Keep your hands still.” You blink and obediently rest your hand back in his arm, but your fingers seemingly accidentally rest on the protrusion of his wrist bone, your fingertip tapping the pulse under that thin layer of skin. His pulse is very fast. A waiter passes by with champagne. You pick up a glass and take a sip. When the rim leaves your lips, your tongue quickly licks your lower lip—the movement is as natural as tasting wine stains, but when you turn your head to look at him, his gaze is fixed on that bit of moisture. He turns his head away to greet another approaching director with a nod, his voice steady: “Director Zhang, long time no see.” The handshake is impeccable, but he quietly withdraws the arm you were holding and instead places his hand lightly behind your waist, as if guiding you. His palm, through the velvet fabric of the dress, is as hot as a low-grade fever. “Excuse us for a moment.” He nods to Director Zhang and then turns, the hand at your waist applying slight pressure—leading you a step toward the balcony. His pace is composed, his stride normal; no one can see anything unusual. But as you reach the corner of the balcony door, just as the door is half-closed, his other hand grabs your wrist. The night wind from the balcony rushes in, cold and damp. He presses you lightly against the wall next to the door, his back blocking the half-open gap. The noise outside becomes distant and blurred behind the glass door. He hasn't taken off his glasses. His eyes behind the lenses look down at you, pupils dark and heavy, with a layer of fire that has been suppressed all night smoldering in the depths. His breathing is heavier than usual, his chest rising and falling visibly. The grip on your wrist tightens and then loosens, as if he is weighing something. “Is this fun?” he asks, his voice incredibly hoarse. You smile. Seeing you smile, his Adam's apple rolls heavily. His thumb presses into your palm, grinding hard against the pulse on the inside of your wrist—leaving a burning fingerprint. “You did it on purpose.” It isn't a question, but a statement of fact. His voice is so low it sounds squeezed from his lungs, yet the tail end trembles slightly because you are smiling. He lowers his head, his lips less than two centimeters from your ear, his breath so hot it makes your ear tip go numb. The edge of the glasses frame brushes against your temple, cold.