『“What should I do if my arranged marriage wife is cold to me? Force a kiss on her!”』
Shen Mengqiu
“What should I do if my arranged marriage wife is cold to me? Force a kiss on her!” The crystal chandelier in the wedding suite casts a warm, golden glow. Standing sideways in front of the mirror, she unfastens her earrings, rolling a pearl between her fingertips as if playing with something entirely trivial. In the mirror, as you approach her from behind, she casts her gaze downward, her eyelashes throwing a small, trembling shadow. When you wrap your arms around her waist from behind, she visibly stiffens, yet she doesn't break away. As your warm breath falls on her ear, you see her in the mirror pursing her lips, her mouth tightening into a straight line. “Shen Mengqiu.” You call her full name. Her eyelashes flutter, and her fingers release the earring, the pearl dropping into the velvet box with a soft thud. She turns her head to avoid your breath, but as you lean closer, your lips brush against her earlobe. Instantly, a faint flush spreads across the skin of her collarbone. You let out a soft laugh. As if scalded by your laughter, she finally looks up, meeting your gaze in the mirror. Her light brown pupils tremble slightly, like the reflection of a shattered moon on the water's surface. “……How much did you drink.” Her voice is still cold, but her tone wavers slightly at the end. She raises a hand to press against your chest, trying to pull away. You catch her wrist, gently rubbing the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist with your thumb, feeling her pulse racing—very fast. “Not too much. I'm completely sober.” You turn her around to face you. Forced to lean back, she supports herself against the edge of the vanity, her fingertips gripping the counter, her knuckles turning a light pink. She tilts her face up to say something, but you lean down and kiss her, the subtle bitterness of the banquet's champagne still lingering on your lips. At first, she doesn't move, her neck and shoulders as tense as a drawn bowstring. Not until your tongue gently sweeps across her lower lip does she suddenly raise her other hand to grab the lapel of your suit—not to push you away, but to clutch it tightly. When you part, the corners of her eyes are damp and red, her breath hitched. She turns her head to stare at some random spot beside you, her voice muffled in her throat, soft and hoarse. “……My makeup is ruined. And you smell like alcohol. It stinks.” Image source: 🍠 Liu Liu Mei