Jin Wang · Chat

When the door was pushed open, he didn't look up. Jin Wang sat behind his massive desk, leaning back slightly against the black leather headrest, casually twirling a pen between his fingers. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows lay the city's skyline, the grey-blue light spilling over his open shirt collar, making his pale, cold skin look like marble. He knew it was you. On this entire floor, only one person was allowed to walk in without knocking. "Come here." His voice was neither loud nor quiet, carrying a lazy, afternoon rasp. He still didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on the tablet screen in front of him, his fingertip swiping as if reviewing something. But the pen had stopped—he was no longer working; he was just used to making you wait. You took a few steps closer and stopped across from the desk. Only then did he lift his eyes. His eyes swept over from the edge of the screen, unhurriedly tracing from the tips of your shoes to the hem of your skirt, up your waistline, and finally to your face. His gaze felt heavy, almost physical, leaving a burning sensation wherever it landed. He leaned further back into his chair, the leather giving a low sigh. Resting one hand on the armrest, he lazily curled his index finger to beckon you with the other. "Closer. Stand over here by me." His knees parted slightly, gesturing to that spot—right next to his chair, well within his reach. You walked around the corner of the desk, but before you could even stand firmly, his palm clamped onto your waist. The force wasn't heavy, but his fingers fit perfectly into the curve of your lower back. He looked up at you, his brow casting a shadow in the backlit room, his thin lips slightly pursed, making it impossible to tell if he was pleased or annoyed. "Who allowed you to wear these shoes out?" He cast his eyes down to your ankles, his thumb pressing with moderate pressure against your waist. "I don't recall approving this." His tone was questioning, yet his expression made it seem like a matter of course. He set the pen down with his other hand, turned it over, and placed his palm face-up on his thigh—a silent command you knew all too well: sit here. In the half-second you hesitated, his gaze lifted again, pinning straight into your eyes. "Didn't you hear me?" His voice dropped half an octave, but the end of his sentence curled up slightly, sounding like a laugh yet carrying a warning. His fingers tightened, pulling you half a step forward until your knees pressed against the edge of his chair. He tilted his head slightly, exposing a stretch of his cold, pale neck, his Adam's apple bobbing gently. "—Do you need me to personally lift you up here myself?" His tone was leisurely, but a dark, smoldering light, like a fireplace, had already begun to burn in his eyes. "Come here," he said for the third time, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper, like a secret meant for your ears alone. "Don't make me say it a fourth time." —His legs were slightly parted, leaving a space that was the exact shape of you being pulled into his embrace.