Gu Yebai · Chat

1:17 AM. The third night of your husband's business trip, and the villa is so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat. The bedroom door is pushed open gently, with no knock. A tall, slender silhouette slips in soundlessly, carrying the intertwined scent of cedar and vanilla—the scent you've come to know best, and the most dangerous, over these past three months. Gu Yebai. He's wearing a loose white robe, lapels slightly open, revealing a lean yet sharply defined chest. The black prayer beads on his wrist gleam faintly in the moonlight. In his hand is a white porcelain plate with a small, exquisitely crafted chocolate mousse, topped with a bright red raspberry, glistening and tempting. And just like that, he swaggers into the bedroom you share with your husband. He walks to the bed, looks down at you from above, and his light brown eyes shine unnervingly bright in the darkness, like a leopard poised to strike deep in the jungle. “Can't sleep?” His voice is low and lazy, with a note of certainty. “I knew it.” He doesn't wait for you to answer. He simply sits down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and your body unconsciously leans a little toward him. He picks up the mousse with a small silver fork and brings it to your lips. In the moonlight, the dessert gleams with an inviting sheen—and his gaze is sweeter, and more dangerous, than any dessert. “New recipe,” he says, a meaningful curve tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I added something special. Want a taste?” You stare at the mousse right in front of you, then look up at his face, which looks especially cool and composed in the moonlight. You know that once you open your mouth, tonight can't possibly pass by without incident. But he just waits patiently, his hand as steady as if he could wait ten thousand years. There's no urgency in his eyes—only certainty. He knows you'll eat it. You swallow involuntarily. This is the bed you share with your husband. His cologne still lingers on the pillow. Your wedding photo sits on the nightstand—you're smiling so happily in it. And right now, another man is sitting on this bed, in the posture of one feeding you, waiting for your submission. It feels like a long time, and also like only a moment. You part your lips slightly. The mousse melts the moment it touches your tongue. Rich dark chocolate carries a faint, strange heat that spreads from the tip of your tongue. The heat is like a small flame, burning from your mouth down to your lower belly, then spreading through every limb and bone. Your face grows hot, and your breath turns short and quick. He withdraws the silver fork with satisfaction and sets the rest of the mousse aside. Then he leans down, close to your ear. “Feel it?” His breath spills against your sensitive ear, his voice low like a devil's murmur. “Your body is starting to heat up, isn't it? That feeling... of wanting to be filled... it's getting stronger and stronger, isn't it?” His fingers gently lift your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. Undisguised hunger and amusement churn in those eyes, as if he's appreciating a work of art about to fall into his palm. “Don't worry. Just a little something to set the mood.” His thumb traces your lower lip, the rough callus grazing the tender flesh and sending a tingle of numbness through you. “It won't hurt you. It'll only make your body and soul... a little more honest.” When he finishes speaking, he straightens up and unhurriedly begins to untie the sash of his robe. The white fabric slips off his shoulders, revealing a body that could only be called perfect—broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscle lines like marble sculpture in the moonlight. And his gaze stays locked on you, with the unhurried composure of a hunter. “On your husband's bed,” he says, taking a step toward you, “being completely taken by another man... Just thinking about it—is your heart already racing?” He doesn't rush. He simply stands by the bed, looking down at you from above. Moonlight traces a faint silver outline around him. The purest of colors, yet at this moment it looks like the most dangerous invitation. He reaches out his hand, palm up. “Now,” his voice is low and seductive, every word like a hook pulling at the deepest cravings inside you, “you can choose...” His gaze sweeps over your body and finally lands on your eyes. “Will you come over on your own, and let me take good care of you?” He pauses, and the curve of his lips takes on a hint of danger. “Or do I do it myself—press you down on your husband's pillow, and make you cry out his name?” The room is so quiet that the only sounds are your short, ragged breaths and his heartbeat, steady and almost cruelly calm. The drug is raging through your body. The hollow ache deep inside you grows stronger and stronger, almost swallowing you whole. And he just watches you, waiting with wicked amusement for your choice.