The evening had unfolded like a scene stolen from one of those romance novels she used to devour in university. Novels with creased spines and faded covers that she used to read in secret during university, the ones she would hide between textbooks and pretend were required reading.
Li Bingqing sat in the passenger seat of Sun Junfeng's silver Audi, her fingers still tingling from where she had touched his hand moments ago.
The leather was warm and supple beneath her bare thighs, the hem of her black dress riding up just enough to brush against the edge of the seat. She could feel the slight tackiness of her own skin against the material, a faint warmth radiating from where her thighs pressed together.
Sun drove with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other reaching across to rest on her knee. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles against her skin, each rotation sending a ripple of sensation up her thigh, spreading outward like heat through still water.
She watched his profile in the dashboard's dim glow—the sharp line of his jaw, the slight stubble that shadowed his chin, the way his lips curved into a half-smile when he glanced her way. The corners of his eyes crinkled with that particular warmth she had come to crave.
He was perfect. Absolutely, devastatingly perfect.
He had opened the car door for her back at the apartment, his hand extended with that old-fashioned gallantry that made her feel like a woman in a black-and-white film, the kind where the heroine wore gloves and the hero never raised his voice. She had leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, the slight scratch of his stubble against her mouth, the clean scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper, like bergamot—filling her senses. She had lingered half a second longer than necessary before pulling back. Then he had closed the door with a soft, solid thud, and she had watched him round the hood, his stride confident, loose-hipped.
The gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes about who he was. He was considerate. He was attentive.
As the car pulled away from the curb and the familiar streets of her neighborhood began to slide past the window, she had expected the evening to unfold in predictable beats, but Sun had other plans.
As soon as they left the familiar area he pulled the car to the side of the road, parking beneath the high branches of an old banyan tree whose aerial roots hung like thin ropes in the twilight. The engine died with a soft click, and the sudden silence pressed against her ears. Before she could ask what he was doing, he had unbuckled his seat belt and reached for her.
"Come here," he said. His voice was low, roughened at the edges, carrying a weight that made her stomach tighten.
She moved without thinking, her body responding before her mind could catch up. The center console pressed against her hip as she shifted onto his lap, the fabric of her dress bunching around her waist, her knees finding the edges of the driver's seat.
His hands found her waist first—fingers gripping firmly, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin material. Then they slid up her back, tracing the line of her spine, pulling her closer until her chest pressed against his.
His lips met hers.
The kiss was not gentle. It was hungry, demanding, a taking rather than a request. His mouth moved against hers with an urgency that made her head spin, his tongue sweeping across her lower lip before she had time to prepare. She opened for him instinctively, a soft sound escaping her throat as his tongue met hers. Her fingers threaded through his hair, the strands soft and thick between her digits, and she pulled him deeper.
He tasted of mint and something darker, something that coiled low in her belly. The flavor spread across her tongue, mixing with the faint salt of his skin, and she swallowed it down like a secret.
Her mind raced with delight even as her body melted into the kiss. She understood, in that moment, what he had done.
He had stopped.
He had found a shadowed spot away from her house, where the streetlights did not quite reach and the neighbors could not peer from their windows. It had been daylight still—the soft gold of early evening—when they left.
Someone might have seen, Someone would have seen, if he had kissed her in front of the house. Someone might have recognized her as the wife of Feng Wuji, the man with the quiet demeanor and the steady job.
Sun had thought of that. He had been careful. Considerate.
Even now, as his mouth claimed hers with deepening intensity, his hands remained disciplined. One pressed flat against the small of her back, anchoring her against him. The other cupped the nape of her neck, fingers threading gently through her hair. He did not pull at her dress.
He did not grope or grab. Careful not to wrinkle her dress. He did not smear the makeup she had spent forty minutes perfecting. He was mindful of their dinner reservation, of the image she presented to the world, of the careful construction of the evening.
So charming. So controlled.
Of course bingqing also came prepared. She had learned from last time. On their last date—Sun had surprised her with a sudden kiss, then they spent their whole date kissing ..and her ordinary lipstick had transferred in a red smear across both their mouths.
She was terrified of going home to Wuji, certain that Wuji would notice the evidence written on her swollen lips. But when she returned home, the apartment was dark and empty. Wuji did not come home until late.
She had scrubbed her face raw and changed into her sleeping clothes before he finally walked through the door, distant and distracted.
Tonight, she had prepared. The lip stain she wore was a specialized formula, designed to set and remain on the lips regardless of friction. Kiss-proof. Transfer-proof. The advertisement had promised that it would survive anything short of industrial solvent. She had tested it herself in the bathroom mirror before leaving, pressing her lips hard against the back of her hand and finding no trace left behind.
She was ready for him.
The kiss deepened. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, then dipped inside, exploring her mouth with slow, thorough strokes. She tasted herself on him—the faint residue of her lip stain, the sweetness of her own saliva—and the intimacy of it made her moan softly against his mouth. His hand tightened on her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt the hard line of his arousal pressing against her thigh through the fabric of his trousers.
She ground against him instinctively, seeking pressure, friction, anything to relieve the ache that was building between her legs. He groaned into her mouth, his hips rising to meet hers, and the booth of the car grew thick with the heat of their breath, the scent of his cologne mingling with the faint floral perfume she had dabbed behind her ears.
For a long moment, she forgot everything. Forgot the street outside. Forgot the passing headlights that sliced through the car's windows. Forgot the weight of her wedding band, still cool and solid on her finger. There was only Sun's mouth on hers, Sun's hands on her back, Sun's breath mixing with her own in warm, shared gusts.
Then, unbidden, a thought surfaced.
Wuji.
She stiffened. It was barely a tremor, a momentary hesitation in the rhythm of her response, but Sun felt it immediately. The hand at her nape stilled. His mouth slowed, softening from demand to inquiry. He pulled back just enough to look at her face, his eyes searching hers in the dim light. The desire was still there, banked but present, but something else flickered behind it: concern.
"You okay?" His voice was low, rougher now, but gentle.
She felt a flush of guilt rise up her neck, staining her cheeks. Not guilt for kissing sun—she was past that, had made her peace with that choice—but guilt for ruining the moment.
For letting her mind wander. For letting "him" intrude on something that belonged only to her and Sun.
She forced a smile, hoping it looked convincing. "I'm alright. I just... I realized we might be late for our reservation."
Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded thin. Brittle. A transparent lie dressed in paper. Stupid. Pathetic.
Sun studied her for a long moment. His gaze was steady, unblinking, and she felt exposed under it, as though he could see straight through her words to the messy tangle of thoughts beneath. She expected him to press, to ask what was really wrong, to demand the truth.
Instead, he nodded. He helped her slide back into the passenger seat, his hands gentle on her hips, and when she was settled, he started the engine and pulled back onto the road without another word.
{Stupid,} she thought, staring at the blurred streetlights as they passed. {Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the moments to think of him, why now? Why here? Ahhh... I just ruined the start of my perfect date...}
Speaking of wuji, she had not seen him for almost two days. It had been over ten days since he had initiated a real conversation with her, since he had looked at her with anything other than that flat, distant gaze. He moved through the apartment like a ghost, silent and watchful, his eyes always slightly averted, as if he could not bear to look at her directly.
Bingqing felt a pang of guilt.
She had hurt him. She knew that. He had never gone this long without talking to her , making love to her .... The knowledge sat like a stone in her chest, heavy and cold.
His pride was wounded. His sense of ownership—love, she corrected herself, but the word felt thin—his sense of love had been challenged.
Men were like that, she told herself. They can't share their loved ones with others.... . Their egos were too fragile, too tied to their sense of possession.
But Sun is too important.
He made her feel alive in ways Wuji had not managed in years. The way he looked at her, the way his hands traced her skin, the way he remembered every small detail—it was intoxicating.
And it was not as if she was leaving Wuji. She was simply expanding her life, adding something that had been missing. She wanted to have no regrets when she was old, no what-ifs haunting her final years. Surely Wuji could understand that, eventually.
He would come around. He always did. He just needed a little coaxing, just needed time—time to process, to accept that this was the new shape of their marriage.
Perhaps she should send him a message, a small olive branch to soothe his wounded pride. A gentle reminder that she still cared, even if her attention was temporarily divided.
Yes, she decided. I will message him when we reach the restaurant. But not in front of sun , don't want to ruin the night. Just a quick text while I am in the restroom. Nothing that would disrupt the evening.
She pushed Wuji to the back of her mind and turned her attention back to Sun, watching the way the dashboard lights played across his features. Tonight was for her. Tonight was for Sun.
############################
The restaurant was everything she had dreamed of. Candlelight flickered across white tablecloths, casting warm, dancing shadows across the wine glasses. The stemware caught the light and threw tiny rainbows onto the walls. The waiter moved with silent precision, appearing at precisely the right moments to refill water, to recommend dishes, to vanish again into the soft hum of the dining room.
Sun ordered for both of them, remembering her preference for seafood, her aversion to mushrooms. He knew she liked her wine slightly chilled and her bread served with olive oil rather than butter. He had paid attention. He remembered everything.
They talked, she talked. He listened with genuine interest, his eyes never leaving her face, his head tilted slightly as though he was savoring every word.
They laughed , shared their plates , and held hands . Bingqing's eyes got dreamy . The dinner was perfect and romantic.
When she excused herself to the restroom, the marble floor cool beneath her heels, she pulled out her phone and typed a quick message to Wuji.
Have you had enough of your tantrum now? Will you come home tonight?
She pressed send without rereading, then slipped the phone back into her clutch. She had done her part. She had extended her hand. She had been the bigger person.
She did not wait for a reply.
When she returned to the table, Sun was waiting, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He stood and pulled out her chair for her, and she settled back into the warmth of his attention, the text already forgotten.
#############################################
The night air hit her face as they stepped out of the restaurant, cool and carrying the scent of rain not yet fallen. The city breathed around them, distant traffic a low hum, the sky a deep velvet blue pricked with the faintest stars. She looked at Sun expectantly, her heart beating faster. The evening could not end here, surely. He must have more planned.
He took her hand, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a slow, deliberate stroke."Let's go find someplace quiet and nice,"he said. His eyes held a greed that made her breath catch, a hunger that echoed her own."Alright?"
Bingqing's heart fluttered, she understood what he meant.
She managed a small nod, her cheeks flushing. "Hmm," was all she could manage.
The karaoke bar was not quiet. It was loud—deafeningly loud—filled with off-key singing and the clink of glasses and the bass thump of a speaker someone had turned too high. But they found a private booth in the back. funny.. this place is never a place of quiet and calm , but it served their purpose.
They kissed with an urgency that bordered on desperation, all pretense of romance stripped away. His mouth traveled down her neck, teeth grazing her pulse point, tongue soothing the small sting. She tilted her head back, giving him access, her fingers clutching the back of his shirt.
His hand slid under her dress, fingers found the clasp of her bra with practiced ease, and when it came loose, he pulled the fabric aside.
And for the first time Her bare breasts met his palm, warm and calloused. Bingqing's breath stopped entirely.
His fingers explored the soft weight of her flesh, the texture unfamiliar and thrilling, different from Wuji's hands, different from any touch she had known.
He was cupping her boobs with a possessiveness that made her shiver. He squeezed gently at first, testing the weight of her flesh, then harder, his fingers digging into the soft pliancy of her skin. Her breasts changed shape under his grip, yielding to him.
He was shaping her breast into different contours. Her nipple hardened against his palm, and he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, sending sharp bolts of pleasure straight to her core.
"So soft." he murmured against her neck, his breath hot and damp.
He pulled her dress up to her collarbone, bunching the fabric around her throat in a bunched collar of black silk. Her bra hung loose and forgotten.
Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, the skin pale and smooth, rising and falling with the speed of her breathing. The delicate blue veins were visible beneath the surface, and her nipples had tightened into dark peaks, rigid and aching for his mouth. The flesh bore the pink impressions of his fingers, small red marks blooming where he had gripped too hard.
He lowered his mouth to her nipple, and the world contracted to that single point of sensation. His tongue circled the sensitive peak, wet and warm, teasing her until she gasped. Then he sucked, drawing the nub into the heat of his mouth, and she bucked against him, her hips grinding into his thigh. His hand moved to her other breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently, matching the rhythm of his mouth.
He sucked gently, then harder, drawing the nub into his mouth while his fingers continued to work on the other.
he started playing with them for a long long time, like he would never get bored of those beautiful flesh balls.
Bingqing was finding it hard to control herself.
After what felt an eternity his hand slid lower, palm pressing flat against her stomach, then dipping beneath the waistband of her panties.
His fingers found her wet—soaking. The fabric of her underwear clinging to her slick folds, saturated with evidence of how badly she wanted him. He let out a low sound of approval, a growl that vibrated against her skin.
"You're so wet," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "So ready for me. You've been thinking about this all night, haven't you?"
She could not deny it. It had been more than a week since she had last had sex—that final, hollow coupling with Wuji, on that night right before she asked for open marriage. After that he hadn't even touched her.
Besides, on their last date Sun had kissed her, touched her breasts, groped her on the dance floor and in his car, but he hadn't got the chance to take her fully.
She was horny. Her body ached with unfulfilled need.
Her pussy throbbed with a deep, persistent hunger that no amount of kissing could satisfy. She was horny in a way she had not felt in years—desperate, willing to surrender to whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted it.
His fingers slid through her slick folds, gathering her wetness, spreading it across her clit with agonizing slowness. He circled the sensitive nub with deliberate precision, watching her face as she moaned. Her hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more contact.
"Please," she whispered, the word escaping before she could stop it.
He smiled against her neck, the curve of his lips pressing into her skin. "Not yet."
He continued to torment her, sliding one finger inside her, then two. The stretch was a shock, a deep intrusion that made her gasp. He curled his fingers, pressing upward, and found that rough patch of nerves that made her vision blur. His thumb continued its work on her clit, pressing and releasing in a rhythm that had her moaning into his shoulder.
Her body was shaking, her muscles trembling, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The booth's padded seat creaked beneath their movements, the only sound louder than her own desperate breathing.
Finally, he stopped. He pulled his hand away slowly, deliberately, letting her feel the emptiness of being empty. She let out a whimper of protest, her hips chasing his retreating fingers.
He leaned close, his lips brushing her earlobe. "Let's not go home tonight," he whispered. "Let's get a hotel."
She thought for only two seconds. Two seconds of hesitation, Then she nodded.
"Okay."
She did not care where sun took her tonight. she only needed him to fuck her.. hard.
#####################################
They left the karaoke bar hand in hand, her body humming with unspent desire.
But their plan did not go as they wished. The hotel search proved disastrous.
They went to three hotels, all of them had a glowing red No Vacancy sign. The mood began to sour.
"Let's try one more," he said, frustration creeping into his voice.
But the fourth hotel was also full, and by the time they returned to the car, the atmosphere had shifted.
The urgency that had driven them was now edged with irritation, their bodies still wound tight but the path to release obstructed at every turn.
Sun gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the leather. His jaw was set, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts.
"My place," he said finally, the words clipped. "We'll go to my place."
What they did not know, neither of them noticed, was that the moment they left the hotel lobby a figure standing in the shadow of the hotel's entrance, phone pressed to ear, eyes tracking their car as it pulled away. A quiet voice delivered its report.
"We stopped them . They couldn't find a room at any hotel. They're heading to his place now."
On the other end of the line, Yan Lin smiled. Her fingers tapped a slow rhythm against the phone case.
"Good," she said. "Make sure they don't get there either. Cut his electricity. Stop his water supply line, Jam his lock if you have to, Start the fire alarm. Do whatever is necessary."
She paused, her smile widening into something sharp and satisfied. In the darkness of the empty room where she stood, her voice dropped to a velvet murmur.
"The only place they are allowed to spend the night is at her house. I have everything prepared."
The line clicked dead.