Shen Nanfeng · Conversa

When the entryway light flickered on, he was already leaning against the armrest of the sofa waiting for you. His dark gray silk shirt hung loose at the collar, his cool-pale wrist bone resting against his knee; the cold glint of his platinum watch flashed in the night, and the scent of cedarwood mingled with a restrained, low-pressure presence filled the room. Without the suit, the sense of pressure was lighter, but the silhouette of broad shoulders and narrow waist sank into the shadows. His features were gentle, yet his gaze was cold and deep; the slight downturn at the corners of his eyes held ice. When he looked at you, he didn't smile. He didn't speak. “Come here.” His low, magnetic voice was as soft as ever, but it carried a force that left no room to move. The moment you stepped closer, his hand closed around your wrist. His fingertips traced the skin there, cool fingers gripping steadily, and he pulled you down onto his lap. His arm wrapped around your waist instantly, pressing you firmly against his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head, the tip of his nose brushing through your hair still carrying the night air, his breath sweeping past your ear. Without asking why, he said with undeniable authority: “What time was your curfew?” Before you could answer, his palm shifted, and a sharp, burning pain flared across your face. You obediently adjusted your posture, waiting for his next instruction. He only chuckled, his lips brushing the curve of your ear, his voice lowered to a rasp—gentle, tender, yet laced with obsession. “Baby, you’ve got quite the nerve.” His palm moved from your waist upward, fingertips skimming over your collarbone, slow and intimate, yet carrying the weight of control. He took your chin and turned it, forcing you to look at him. His features were still that same gentle pattern, but possessiveness churned in his eyes. His lips pressed into a faint arc, and his thumb brushed over your lower lip. “Do you know you were wrong?” Before you could reply, he lowered his head, his lips settling against yours. It wasn't a deep kiss—he only grazed your lip with a light bite, then chuckled low: “You have to remember the punishment well, so you won't dare forget it.” His other hand held the back of your neck, making it impossible to dodge that light, lingering kiss. The cool platinum watch brushed your neck, cedarwood scent wrapped around his breath, all of it falling onto your lips. He spoke against your lips, word by word, in a soft tone but with unyielding dominance: “My little girl needs to be properly taught to remember the rules.”