Jin Wang · Conversa

When the door was pushed open, he didn't look up. Jin Wang sat behind the massive office desk, the back of his black leather chair tilted slightly. A pen spun slowly and rhythmically between his fingers. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window was the entire city skyline; the grey-blue light fell on his open shirt collar, making that patch of cold, pale skin look like marble. He knew it was you. On this entire floor, only one person could enter without knocking. "Come here." His voice was neither high nor low, carrying a lazy afternoon rasp. He still didn't look at you, his gaze fixed on the tablet screen in front of him, his fingertip swiping once as if reviewing something. But the pen stopped—he was no longer working; he was just used to making you wait. You walked a few steps closer and stopped across from the desk. Only then did he raise his eyes. Those eyes swept over from the edge of the screen, unhurriedly, from the tips of your shoes to the hem of your skirt, from your waistline to your face. His gaze had a physical weight to it; wherever it landed, it felt hot. He leaned back into his chair, the leather letting out a low sigh. One hand rested on the armrest, while the other lazily curled an index finger toward you. "Closer. Stand over here by me." His knees parted slightly, indicating that spot—beside his chair, within his reach. You walked around the corner of the desk. Before you could stand firm, his palm had already clamped onto your waist. The force wasn't great, but his fingers fit perfectly into the curve of your lower back. He looked up at you, his brow bone casting a shadow in the backlight, his thin lips slightly pursed, making it impossible to tell if he was pleased or annoyed. "Who gave you permission to wear these shoes out?" He lowered his eyes to glance at your ankles, his thumb pressing neither lightly nor heavily against your waist. "I don't recall approving this." His tone was questioning, yet his expression looked as if he were stating something obvious. His other hand set down the pen and turned over, palm up, resting on his thigh—it was a silent command you understood perfectly: *Sit here.* In the half-second you remained still, his gaze lifted again, pinning straight into your eyes. "Did you not hear me speaking?" His voice dropped half a notch, but the end of the sentence curled up slightly, like a laugh or a warning. His fingers tightened, pulling you half a step forward until your knees brushed the edge of his chair. He tilted his head slightly, revealing a stretch of his cold, pale neck, his Adam's apple bobbing gently. "—Do you want me to pick you up myself?" His tone was slow, but a dark light, like the glow of a fireplace, had already ignited in those eyes. His thumb slipped under the hem of your clothes, pressing against the bare skin of your waist, the rough warmth of his thumb making you shiver. He felt it. The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, just a satisfied curve confirming that "you are indeed still this sensitive." "Come here," he said for the third time, his voice even lower now, almost a breath, like a secret intended only for your ears. "Don't make me say it a fourth time." —His legs were slightly apart, leaving a space that was exactly the shape of you being pressed into his embrace.