Rong Lian · Conversa

"Body Temperature Plunder" on a Stormy Night The thunder outside sounds as if it wants to tear the sky apart. Torrential rain pours down, frantically beating against the manor's massive floor-to-ceiling windows, creating a heart-palpitating noise. No lights are on in the study; only the occasional flash of lightning outside illuminates the dim room fitfully. You stand at the door clutching a stack of freshly organized lesson plans, soaked to the bone. Your planned itinerary was completely disrupted by this sudden storm, forcing you to run back to the main building through the rain, only to stumble into a deathly silent darkness upon opening the door. "Who's there?" Your voice trembles slightly, your fingers instinctively reaching for the switch on the wall. "Don't move." A voice as deep as the vibration of a cello string comes from the shadows deep within the room, carrying a tone of unquestionable command. Your movements freeze mid-air. By the white light of the next lightning strike, you finally see the man sitting in the armchair. Rong Lian. He is almost merged with the darkness, only those gray-blue eyes glinting with a cold light in the dimness, like a lone wolf scrutinizing its prey. He is still wearing that black shirt soaked by the rain, the fabric clinging tightly to his body, outlining the contours of his broad shoulders and lean waist. Droplets of water drip from his bright red hair, sliding down his sharp, blade-carved jawline, finally vanishing into the depths of his collar against that faintly visible pale skin. The air is thick with a damp chill, mixed with the faint scent of tobacco from him and a highly aggressive male pheromone, instantly filling the entire space. "Young Master... I didn't realize you were here." You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "The rain outside is too heavy, the driver said the car broke down, I could only—" "Come here." He interrupts your pale explanation, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather, yet the pressure within it makes it impossible for you to refuse. You hesitate for a moment but walk over, still holding the lesson plans. With every step, you can feel that cold, powerful aura belonging to him closing in. By the time you stand before him, the sense of oppression reaches its peak. Rong Lian slowly raises his head, his gaze sweeping up from below at your disheveled state. His eyes linger on your soaked hemline and dripping hair, his expression dark and unreadable. "Is this your reason for being late?" he asks, his voice still without much inflection, but you keenly catch a flash of displeasure in the depths of his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'll change right away..." You frantically try to turn and escape this suffocating space. "I didn't tell you to leave." A hand suddenly clamps onto your wrist. His palm is large, his fingertips carrying thin calluses from years of handling heavy objects; his touch is bone-chillingly cold, yet it burns a brand into your skin. With a slight pull, an irresistible force drags you toward him. You lose your balance, falling onto the armrest beside him. Before you can react, he has already stood up, his tall frame completely enveloping you. "So cold," he murmurs softly, as if talking to himself, or perhaps passing judgment on you. The next second, that large, icy hand presses directly against the back of your neck. "Mmh—!" You can't help but let out a short gasp. That coldness is like a snake's tongue licking your skin, sending a shiver through your body. "Don't hide." Rong Lian's voice sounds right in your ear, carrying a hint of dangerous hoarseness. He gives you no chance to escape, his other hand wrapping around your waist, pressing you firmly into his embrace. In that moment, you clearly feel his body temperature—the chill of someone who just returned from a rainstorm and hasn't yet warmed up, but beneath that layer of cold, there surges a heat sufficient to incinerate a person. This is "Empathy." When his cold fingertips touch you, you don't just feel his cold; you feel a long-suppressed longing spreading from the depths of his soul. That emotion pours into your mind like a tide, making your head spin. "Young Master... this isn't proper..." you pant, trying to push him away with what remains of your reason. "Proper?" Rong Lian chuckles, the sound vibrating low in his chest and conducting through your pressed bodies. He lowers his head, his nose brushing against your earlobe, his warm breath fanning over your sensitive spots. "In this house, I am the rules." He tilts his head slightly, his lips almost touching your carotid artery, feeling your pulse racing with fear and shame. "Besides," his voice becomes even deeper and huskier, with a hint of wicked amusement, "Teacher, your heartbeat is too loud. It's telling me that you aren't as resistant as you're acting... You're excited, aren't you?" Another crash of thunder explodes outside, masking the whimper about to escape you. In this rain-drenched night, you are his only heater, and the only prey he wishes to consume.