The cloying scent of cheap sex and oud wood still clung to Room 307 as Zhou Tian dressed. He chose black: dark jeans clinging to hard thighs, a fitted charcoal V-neck tee that showed the powerful lines of his shoulders and chest, the slight definition of abs even through the fabric. No tie. His jaw, freshly shaved, was a hard line beneath eyes that held no reflection of the night before. Just purpose. Concrete.
The Broken Mast at 7:55 PM hummed with a different energy. The polished mahogany glowed under low lights. A few early arrivals – men in expensive casual wear projecting negligent wealth, women in tough-chic ensembles radiating bored confidence – nursed cocktails. The big bartender, whose nameplate now read 'Chen' (not that Chen, Zhou assumed), gave him a slow nod and gestured towards the back.
Lily's office was a windowless vault off the stock room. Steel desk, three monitors flickering with security feeds, a stack of ledgers, and a single, perfectly sharpened pencil. She sat ramrod straight, her black eyes scanning a spreadsheet, her tailored suit impeccable. She didn't look up immediately.
"You survived the Orchid," she stated, still studying numbers. "Expected."
"Only thing that broke was the bedsprings," Zhou replied, leaning against the doorframe, radiating a confidence that was armor now.
That got her eyes up. Cold assessment. Saw the composed predator where yesterday stood the man carrying ghosts. "Clean shave doesn't erase the knuckle scars." She pointed the pencil tip at him. "Do you actually know how to mix something wetter than tears? Or just pour draft?"
"Cocktails. Classics. Trends if you stock the props." He kept it clipped. Useful.
"Show me." She pushed her chair back, crossing her legs. "Hugo's out front. Ask him for the box."
Hugo (Chen) silently slid a black lacquered case onto the main bar top. Zhou approached, flipping open the latches. Inside: Boston shakers, jiggers, fine strainers, fresh citrus, obscure bitters, expensive spirits. A test.
Lily watched from the end of the bar, arms crossed.
Zhou moved with unthinking precision: Chill the coupe glass. Measure botanical gin, dry vermouth, a whisper of saline celery bitter. Ice clattered in the shaker windshield-wiper swift. Shake. Fast. Hard. Fifteen seconds. The chilling frost bloomed on the silver. Fine strain into the glass. Float a single fat brined caper onion on the surface. Gibson. He slid it wordlessly down the smooth wood. It stopped perfectly before Lily.
She lifted it. Tasted. Her expression remained unchanged, but the slight tightening near her eyes said approval. "Parsons, London," she stated. Not guessing. Knowing. "Used to cater masquerades for Russian oligarchs."
"Briefly. Found the clientele lacked… originality," Zhou said, gathering his tools for the next silent order he sensed.
"You'll do." She stood, tossing him a crisp black apron and a sleek, heavy name tag stamped simply: ZHOU. "Eight is when the tide turns. Keep your eyes sharp and your spills minimal." She paused. "And ignore the moths who inevitably flutter towards your particular flame tonight. Distractions get costly." With that warning vibrating in the air, she vanished back into her vault.
---
The uniform was a second skin. The name tag a brand. Zhou fell into the rhythm: polishing glassware, restocking, lighting candles in frosted sconces. Hugo handled the mid-shelf crowds. Zhou was positioned at the high-service end – crafting precision drinks for those who understood the difference between expense and value.
He moved with feline economy: spinning a bottle in one hand while polishing a glass with the other, measuring pours without looking, his large hands unexpectedly dexterous. It was a silent performance. And it drew attention. Discreet glances from women lingering at nearby tables. Lounging on low leather sofas. Appreciative murmurs. Not flirtatious. Not yet. More a gathering storm.
A Gin Fizz, exact bubbles, to the sleek editor. A Sazerac, rye rich and thick with Peychaud's spice, to the weathered diplomat. Each drink delivered with a brief, unnerving eye contact. A silent acknowledgment before Zhou moved on.
A woman slid onto a stool directly before him. Mid-thirties, radiating a kind of curated sensuality slightly too effortful for comfort. Blonde highlights, expensive Botox lift at the corners of green eyes. Pouting lips. Her figure strained against tight tailoring – hips rounded, bust pronounced. An overflowing D-cup challenged the silk buttons of her jacket. She smiled, wide, slightly brittle.
"You must be Zhou. Lily's new blade." Her voice was melodic, pitched low. She extended a hand, fingers bejeweled, her wedding band a wide platinum band studded with pavé diamonds tracing the line where her thumb met her index finger. An expensive cage. "Camille."
He gripped her offered hand briefly. Professional. "What can I make for you, Mrs. Camille?"
"Oh, 'Mrs.' sounds so dreary tonight." She leaned her elbows on the bar, deliberately deepening her already impressive cleavage visible through the open neck of her jacket. "Something… warming. Sweet, strong, with a kick." Her eyes lingered on his hands gripping the shaker. "Takes skill. Do you have skilled hands, Zhou?"
"Orders get filled." His tone was neutral, glancing only at the bottles. "Dirty Banana?" Sweet. Strong. Obvious.
She laughed, throaty. "See? You understand." She watched him build it: Crème de cacao, Bailey's, rum over heavy ice. Minimal shake. Strain. Top with frost. Slide it across.
"Stronger than it tastes. You've been warned." He moved to serve another customer.
But Camille stayed. Sipped. Watched him work with undisguised hunger. By her third drink (he poured lighter, reflexes keen), the pretense wore thin. She was flushed. Slurring compliments he deflected. When the Mandopop pumping softly from hidden speakers hit a slow bass throb, she leaned far enough forward that Zhou could see the restrained swell of a lace plunge bra beneath her jacket.
"Lily," Camille breathed, beckoning the manager over as she swayed towards the restroom. "Your new Yang Gang Spellcaster… he's leaving bite marks on everyone's necks just with that look. Send him home with me. Limitless bonus."
Lily's gaze didn't leave Zhou. Drank her from the corner of her eye. Cold. "Your husband expects you home for the Nantou video conference tonight, Camille. Zhou hasn't earned bonuses. He earns his wage."
Camille pouted, flushed deeper, but the mention of 'husband' stalled her like cold water. She retreated.
But others came. A business card next to a drained Mezcal Negroni. A phone number written in bright red lipstick on a cocktail napkin tucked under a glass. A lingering touch on his arm as he passed a booth. Hungry eyes tracking his waist, his hands, the trapped energy coiled in his stillness. Zhou tucked the cards into his apron pocket without glancing at them. Currency accepted. Terms unclear. The concrete held.
---
2:47 AM. Shanghai outside still buzzed, but the Mast was clearing, wiped clean and locked down. Lily vanished without comment. Hugo muttered "See you bleeding tomorrow" as Zhou shrugged off the apron, the name tag feeling suddenly heavy.
As he hit the cold night air, a figure emerged from the deeper shadows beside the club entrance. Camille. Jacket pulled tight, her expression desperate, hungry. Eyes red-rimmed but blazing.
"She didn't pay you enough for the insult." Her voice vibrated. "Come, I'll fix it."
He didn't speak, turning towards the alley leading back to the Orchid. She followed, heels clicking rapid-fire on the damp concrete.
Room 307 again. Door shut. Locked. She didn't look at the crumbling walls. She looked at him. Needy. Angry. Fuel.
He pushed her jacket off her shoulders. It pooled around her. Covered her silk camisole with sheer black lace, already stretched taut over pendulous breasts, peaked nipples visibly straining the fine weave. "Hands and knees," he ordered, voice flat.
She scrambled onto the bed, ass high, draped over the thin comforter. Her tailored skirt rode high. No underwear. She'd come prepared. The illicit gloss of arousal already shone on soft flesh.
He unzipped his jeans, freeing his thick erection. Not gentle. He gripped the base, guiding the broad, swollen head hard against her entrance, felt her tense, heard her gasp at the insistent pressure. "Beg." Not a request.
"Please… God, *please,* inside, *so help me—*" she whined, pushing back against him futilely.
He didn't thrust. He forced the head slowly, inexorably past her resistance, her muscles yielding, stretching, clenching. An inch. Another. Burying himself slowly in an agony of slide, her high, choked cries filling the small room. He sank as deep as she could take him, paused in her pulsing heat.
He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in, brutal, hilt-deep, knocking the breath from her lungs. Then withdrew. Again. "Open."
She twisted awkwardly beneath him, understanding. Lowered her upper body, cheek pressed to the tacky bedspread, reaching back. Her mouth was clumsy at first, sloppy with desperation, swirling her tongue wet and strong around the slick crown coated in her need. She bobbed, her hips jerking as he kept her positioned with iron fingers locked on her waist. Saliva slid down his shaft.
He let her take half his length, the firm, inviting pressure of her throat against the tip a deep, insistent thrum against his self-control. Her hair stuck to her forehead, her panted breaths hot on his skin. Her eyes squeezed shut in concentration as he pressed deeper, dragging his length back over her tongue – a wet, obscene pull that vibrated through his entire pelvis. The bed creaked violently. Sweat sheened her back. The sour-sweet scent of her arousal mixed with the musk of her mouth filled the room. Her drool made a slick trail down his balls. He tasted her submission, felt it clutch him everywhere. She gagged once, savagely, pulled off coughing – tears at the corners of her eyes – then dove back instantly, hollowing her cheeks with frantic desperation.
"Hungry tonight," he observed, voice thick.
She moaned, the vibration buzzing through him, lips locked tight. Devouring. Claiming. Trying to erase her husband's world with rough friction alone.
He let her work longer than he normally would, the sheer carnality of the act mirroring her rage. Her married rage. Her bottled yearning. The tension coiled tighter, a wire stretched to steel. Finally, he pulled her mouth off him, a thick thread of saliva snapping. Her eyes clouded and confused. Wanting.
"Enough."
He flipped her onto her back, unceremoniously. Her full breasts spilled free of the delicate lace and camisole constraints he tore aside. Heavy, warm, pillowy flesh trembling with each shuddering breath. Dusky large areolas puffed, turgid nipples like small ripe berries. He pulled her thighs open wide, effortlessly folding her body, splitting her readiness. Then drove straight home, seating himself to the hilt in one lunge. Deep in the soaked clutch of her.
She cried out, back arching like a bow, thrusting her breasts upwards. He didn't hesitate. Bent forward, one hand gripping the headboard, the other capturing a heavy breast, kneading roughly. He took the peak of her other breast hard into his mouth. He sucked. Deep, demanding pulls that made her cry out each time the pressure came in sharp pulsing waves. He fucked with the same deliberate punishing cadence: deep grind, then three sharp snaps. Teeth grazing her nipple in counterpoint to every deep inward slam. Wet heat swallowed his cock rhythmically, complemented by the throb and ache of her breast trapped in his mouth. Her fingernails dug bloody half-moons onto her own breast as the conflicting sensations ripped a ragged crescendo from her throat. Gut deep, guttural. Her climax tore through her in waves.
He rode her through it, relentless, her milk-heavy breasts jostling with each savage thrust. He withdrew, spilling hot over her creased belly, painting her wedding band with the proof of her betrayal. Chest heaving, she collapsed back, a canvas of sweat, slack limbs, saliva, shimmering release.
Zhou let her lie there. Barely breathing hard. He stepped over the puddled silk on the floor to the small sink. Camille turned her head on the damp sheets, eyes half-lidded with fatigue and lingering lust. Her breasts quivered with each breath like two heavy sacks.
She mumbled something indistinguishable, eyes already fluttering shut. Oblivion claiming her.
He dried his hands. Looked back at her. She looked stranded there, splayed, at the mercy of this decaying room. The wanton slackness in her middle age. The fleshy abundance. The shameless, shattering need.
A grunt escaped him. Not humor. Recognition.
*Fuck*, he thought, turning away, snapping off the flickering light. Darkness swallowed them.
**Milfs**.
He didn't smirk. The word just hung in the humid air as absolute, primal fact. In the concrete void where his heart used to be, in the raw mechanics of flesh and release… they were pure. Efficient. Ungetting. Cleansing as cold water. Better. The hunt went on.
He lay back beside her sprawled, sleeping form, staring once more at the stain on the ceiling. The damp patch beside him started to soak into the cheap mattress. The Orchid, the Mast, the milfs… bricks in the wall he built around nothing. Sleep wasn't the goal. Only readiness for the next firefight down on the hard, glittering street. Concrete could endure hell. It just had to stay hard. Impenetrable. Forever.