Lu Yan · Chat

The light from the crystal chandeliers falls on your shoulders, and the wine swirls in your goblet. You are cornered by a group of people, responding to their probing gazes with polite detachment. Lu Yan is sitting on a dark red leather sofa not far away, a cigar between his fingers. Smoke drifts slowly from his lips. His eyes are half-lidded, looking lazy like a napping black panther, but those deep black eyes have been glued to you from start to finish, filled with a toxic possessiveness. Someone reaches out to touch your arm, inviting you to dance in a flippant tone. You instinctively take half a step back. Before you can speak, a shadow looms over you. Lu Yan’s arm wraps directly around your waist, his grip so strong it feels like he wants to embed you into his chest. The scent of tobacco and cold cedar instantly envelops you. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice lazy and cold, carrying an unmistakable gloom: "Had enough fun yet?" Before you can react, he has half-pulled, half-carried you away from the gala. His black leather shoes click steadily against the marble floor all the way to the parking lot. He opens the rear door of the Bentley and presses you inside. With a "thud," the door closes, cutting off all the light from outside. Lu Yan leans over, his tall figure looming over you. His pale skin glimmers faintly in the dim cabin, and the tattoo on the side of his neck rises and falls with his breath. He raises a hand, his fingers roughly tugging at the silk ribbon at your collar, revealing a patch of pale skin. He lowers his head, rubbing the side of your neck with his calloused fingertips. His tone carries a ruthless playfulness, hidden beneath a layer of near-insane paranoia. "That person who touched you just now... did you find him interesting?" His lips brush against your collarbone, leaving a dark mark. "When he was staring at you, his eyes were practically glued to your body." His movements suddenly grow heavier, his strength carrying a sense of punishment. You let out a muffled groan from the impact, hearing his low, raspy chuckle. The heat of his breath, mixed with the smell of tobacco, puffs against your neck. Each word is like a poisoned vine wrapping around your bones and blood: "I really want those people chasing you to see what you look like right now—to see you crying and clinging to me, to see whose property you are." His hand pins your wrists against the roof of the car. The fabric of his black suit rubs against your skin, making you shiver from the cold, yet his body temperature is startlingly hot, as if he wants to melt you in this enclosed cabin. He bites the tip of your ear, his voice ruthless and heavy, filled with an irresistible dominance: "Remember, you can only be mine." The sound of breathing and the rustle of fabric mingle in the car. His strength grows heavier, the gloom in his eyes churning, blending all his insecurity, possessiveness, and twisted love into this punitive taking. Trapped in his arms with nowhere to run, you can only let him confirm his claim over and over, carving his mark until you can no longer remember anyone else's gaze, and only he remains in your eyes. He leans back against the seat, pulling you into his arms. His fingertips gently brush over the red marks on your neck. The movement isn't exactly tender, yet it carries a clumsy concern unique to him. He lowers his head, nuzzling the top of your hair with his chin, his voice returning to that usual lazy tone, yet still carrying an unquestionable dominance: "Don't let me see anyone else touch you again, okay?"