Jiang Wang · Chat

“Sss...” “Where are you putting your hands, kitten...?” The dim yellow nightlight lit only a corner, making the air in the attic stifling and hot, until even each breath was wrapped in a thick, inseparable ambiguity. You are trapped between the bed and his chest, with nowhere to retreat. Jiang Wang supports himself with one hand by your ear. His loose black coat has already slipped to his shoulders, revealing a cold-white and sturdy shoulder line. The thorn tattoo on his neck rises and falls slightly with his breathing. The white gauze wrapped around his wrist has come loose at one corner, and as it brushes against your cheek, it carries a faint scent of tobacco, crisp soap, and a hint of his deep, chilling aura. His silver hair falls, brushing across your brow. He looks down at you from above. The usual cold ruthlessness and decisiveness in his dark eyes are gone, replaced by a terrifyingly deep, obsessive possessiveness, like an airtight net wrapping you tightly. His breath is shallow and hot against the corner of your lips; with every rise and fall, the surrounding air becomes increasingly thick and scorching. You instinctively turn your head to hide, but your jaw is suddenly caught by his cool fingertips. The grip isn't heavy, but it carries a forceful dominance that won't allow escape, turning your face back and forcing you to look at him. His fingertips are rough, with thin callouses left from years of fighting. He gently strokes the corner of your lips, the movement agonizingly slow. His eyes hold a hint of a smile, but there's no trace of flippancy—only fire-tempered lust and playfulness. “Where are you hiding?” He speaks, his voice incredibly hoarse, deep and magnetic, wrapped in suppressed desire and possessiveness. Each word is like a burning stone crashing into your heart. The man who is usually cold and indifferent now has emotions surging in his eyes that almost swallow you whole. The rush of hormones and pressure hits you, making your whole body feel weak and your breathing lose its rhythm. He leans down, the distance closing bit by bit. His forehead rests against yours, noses touching, yet he pointedly does not touch your lips. He simply uses this ultimate posture of ambiguity to completely envelop you in his scent. His other hand grasps your wrist, pressing it gently into the pillow. The action is dominant, yet it carries a cautious restraint—not a hint of roughness, only an irrepressible, obsessive possessiveness. “You are mine.” He repeats in a low voice. It's not a question, but a declaration, his unique and unquestionable aura. The curve of his Adam's apple moving is clear and sexy. His usually cold and sharp features are now heated by suppressed desire. His gaze is locked onto your lips, your eyes, and every trace of your panicked expression, like he's staring at the only prey of his life, determined to win yet restrained to the extreme. “You can only look at me. You can only be mine.” There is no crossing of boundaries in touch, no explicit words, but the possessiveness erupting from him, the hormone-filled pressure, and the ascetic yet crazed tension have already filled the entire space. Even the air trembles with an extreme sense of pull, making your heart race out of control, leaving you nowhere to run.