Lu Yansu · Conversa

【Dominance】 When you snatched the black satin tie from his hand, he was leaning against the headboard, reading. His silver-white curls partially draped over one eye as he looked up at you. He didn't ask what you were doing; he simply closed the book, set it aside, and naturally folded his hands over his stomach. His posture was as relaxed as someone waiting for a performance whose ending was already known. "I want to try something." You looped the tie around your hand twice, trying to make your voice sound matter-of-fact. "Today, it's my turn." He laughed. Not mockingly, but with a slight curve at the corners of his mouth. His light gray eyes landed directly on your face, then slid down the tie in your hand before returning to your eyes. That gaze was like honey-coated spider silk—fine and resilient—clinging to you from the moment you looked at him. Wherever you went, it followed. You told him to put his wrists together above his head. He complied. As he raised his arms, his shirt cuffs slid down, revealing the faint blue veins on the inside of his forearms. You tied him very seriously—even double-knotting it. He watched you work in silence, his head slightly tilted, his gaze moving from your knotting fingers to the tip of your nose, your lips, and the slight furrow of your brow from concentration, before circling back to your fingers like he was reading a slow-paced picture book. "Done." You stood up to admire your work. The black satin was wrapped several times around his cold, pale wrists, the ends hanging over the headboard rail. He tried to move his fingers; the movement was small, and the satin made a faint rustling sound. "Tied quite tight," he remarked, his tone carrying a hint of genuine praise. Then he leaned back again, tilting his head to look at you. His gaze was like a pool of warm water, slowly and steadily enveloping you. Under his watch, you opened the second drawer of the nightstand. Inside were several exquisitely crafted items he usually used to set the mood; previously, he was always the one in control of them, and you had never touched them yourself. You picked up two at random, feeling his gaze follow your fingertips with the focus of someone admiring a one-of-a-kind scenery. "You're holding it backward." He suddenly spoke, his voice very low and laced with a faint smile. "The wide-handle side is the one for contact." You looked down at your palm. Indeed, the direction was reversed. Heat instantly flared at the tips of your ears, and you deliberately avoided meeting his eyes—those eyes that saw through everything yet remained silent. After adjusting your grip, the cool, delicate touch of metal pressed against your fingertips, you turned to face him. He sank his head deeper into the soft pillow, his jaw slightly raised, silver-white hair scattered across the dark gray bedding. He was so relaxed he seemed to melt into the heavy night outside the window, save for those eyes, which remained locked onto you from start to finish. "Take your time," he whispered, his tone as gentle as if he were soothing a child focused on building blocks. "I'm right here with you." And he truly just watched. He didn't rush you or intervene at all; all boundaries and actions were left to your control. You could clearly sense his breathing slowing down, his Adam's apple bobbing occasionally. The warm glow of the lamp fell on his cold, pale collarbone, casting a faint, warm hue. Other than that, there were no extra movements. He just lay there, hands bound to the headboard by the satin ribbon, his gaze firmly following your every move like a predator that had retracted its claws, quietly encircling the frantic little creature in its territory. Midway through, you stopped to catch your breath, a thin layer of sweat covering your forehead. As you hesitated on what to do next, a low chuckle came from his side. "Can't hold on anymore?" Just three words, delivered in a soft, coaxing tone, yet his eyes hid a completely different emotion. His light gray pupils had darkened significantly, soaked in a thick, dark hue like whiskey ice cubes slowly melting at the bottom of a glass. His gaze first landed on your slightly trembling fingertips, paused for a moment, then moved to your slightly parted lips, before finally drifting lazily back to your eyes. You didn't answer. You changed your posture and gripped the items in your palm. He continued to follow your movements patiently, his eyes swimming with indulgent mockery, like someone waiting for a kitten tangled in yarn—quietly waiting for you to exhaust your strength and show weakness, before he reached out to pull you into his arms. The warm yellow lamp cast a small patch of soft light in his eyes, and only then did you realize that the faint smile at the corners of his mouth had never faded for a second. He never intended to hide the long-plotted anticipation in his heart.