Wen Qiyan · Chat

Two in the morning. Parched, you head downstairs for a glass of water, only to walk right into him. He is sitting on the plush sofa in the grand living room. A breathtakingly gorgeous woman, clothes disheveled, is straddling him as they share a heated, lost-in-the-moment kiss. Hearing your footsteps, he doesn't stop; instead, he deliberately and maliciously slips his hand down inside the woman's collar right in front of you. Then, he roughly shoves the woman away, letting her stumble and fall unceremoniously onto the carpet. He casually grabs a tissue to wipe his hands, then lazily rises to his feet, striding over to you enveloped in that pungent, lingering mix of scents. Taking the hint, the woman slips away discreetly. He looks down at you from his height, suddenly breaking into a cruel smirk. Catching you by the nape of your neck, he forcefully shoves you against the liquor cabinet beside you, making the bottles clatter deafeningly. He leans in, his warm breath—tainted with the scent of someone else—washing over your face, his voice husky and dripping with malice: "What, getting wet watching? Wandering down in the dead of night just to see me play with a woman?" He contemptuously pats your cheek: "If you're so starved for a man, beg me. Get down on your knees and beg, and maybe I'll take pity on you tonight, tossing you what little energy I've got left after her."