Chapter 65 Part 2

Meng Ning patted her own thighs. “Come on, I’ll massage your temples for you.”

Persuaded, Wen Zenian swung her feet onto the sofa and lay back across Meng Ning’s crossed legs.

“Aren’t you going to change out of that evening gown first?” Meng Ning asked.

Wen Zenian let out a soft hum. “Too much hassle. Can’t be bothered.”

Meng Ning smacked her lips inwardly. Such an expensive dress, and she didn’t cherish it at all—like a disposable product meant to be used once and tossed aside.

Damn capitalism!

Yet Wen Zenian’s face could effortlessly absolve her of anything. Her eye makeup was on the heavier side, but she never wore mascara, so there was no trace of heaviness; just a subtle shimmer of glitter that, as she closed her eyes, seemed to scatter like starlight.

Meng Ning’s gaze drifted to the elegant tip of her nose, then to her thin lips.

Just then, those lips—tinted with an earthy shade of lipstick—parted slightly. “Aren’t you going to massage them?”

“I am.” Meng Ning pressed her index and middle fingers together on both sides of Wen Zenian’s temples.

It was like some peerless martial arts master channeling inner energy to save Wen Zenian’s life with a breath of true qi! Meng Ning grinned to herself.

She was beyond saving. Every time she faced Wen Zenian and felt nervous, she pretended in her mind to be one of those bubbly, outgoing extroverts.

But at that moment, Wen Zenian lifted her eyelids again and caught the upturned corner of Meng Ning’s mouth.

Meng Ning decided that if Wen Zenian asked why she was smiling, she’d say, “Because you’re so beautiful.”

Wen Zenian asked nothing, however, and closed her eyes once more.

That left Meng Ning unable to let her mind wander aimlessly. She gathered her focus and gently massaged Wen Zenian’s temples with care.

Such concentration seemed to ease the tension. Softly, she asked, “Feeling any better?”

Wen Zenian hummed contentedly. “Put a pillow on your legs for me.”

Meng Ning assumed it was because she was too slim, making the position uncomfortable for Wen Zenian. She grabbed a cushion, gently lifted Wen Zenian’s head, and slid it underneath.

“Is that better?” she asked.

“Mm.” Wen Zenian’s voice carried a hint of her alcohol buzz and just the right touch of languidness. “At this height… would it be easier for you to kiss me?”

Meng Ning paused.

Wen Zenian opened her eyes and looked up at her, suddenly hooking the corner of her lips.

Inwardly, Wen Zenian berated herself. What nonsense about true love shortening one’s life, or the gentle jade-like gentleman.

She tilted her head slightly, and the tourmaline earrings on her lobes swayed with the motion. She had never been a gentleman and harbored no hopes of growing old together. A life of thorns and conquests hadn’t softened her heart; she knew her possessiveness ran rampant. Just gazing at Meng Ning before her was enough to ignite it.

She wanted to possess her.

Madly so.

Thus, she said, “Meng Ning, kiss me.”

That familiar imperative drew a smile from Meng Ning’s lips.

Meng Ning’s own surging desire was no less intense, but she always overthought things, always wrestled with herself. Perhaps she needed a clear “command” to give in.

She leaned down and kissed her.

Wen Zenian raised a hand to cradle the back of Meng Ning’s neck, pulling her deeper into the kiss.

Meng Ning’s hands braced against the cushion, and she suddenly pulled back a little. Wen Zenian paused to look at her; the evening gown’s plunging neckline formed a ravine filled like fresh snow.

“Is it really that troublesome to take off the evening gown?” Meng Ning asked.

She leaned in again to kiss Wen Zenian’s forehead. “I don’t think so. I love unwrapping presents.”

Her hand slipped slowly beneath the cushion, seeking the tie at the nape of Wen Zenian’s neck.

The secret to unwrapping a gift was a gentle tug of the fingers, unleashing the surprise. Even if it was something you’d coveted for ages—even if you’d eyed it countless times in store windows—the moment you saw it up close and reached out to touch it, it still thrilled you.

Her heart was enveloped in a massive surge of excitement, a dense, gnawing ache like tiny insects devouring her from within.

“Meng Ning.”

Wen Zenian lay across her legs, murmuring her name in fragmented whispers.

Meng Ning was being too brazen, teasing without providing relief.

Normally, Wen Zenian’s solution would be to seize her wrist and reclaim control. But tonight, she wouldn’t allow it. When Wen Zenian raised her hand, Meng Ning grabbed her slender wrist instead.

“Shh,” she said.

That gaze was too clear, almost expressionless as it looked down from above. It was hard to say whether the flush creeping to Wen Zenian’s temples came from Meng Ning’s touch or from that scrutinizing stare.

She was sober, deliberate, purposeful—watching the woman in her arms writhe in sweet torment and surrender.

Perhaps she also relished hearing Wen Zenian call her name in that broken voice: “Meng Ning.”

Meng Ning. Meng Ning. Meng Ning.

Only then did Meng Ning lean down to kiss her forehead tenderly. “Does it hurt?”

“Why don’t you take care of it yourself?”

By the time Wen Zenian had rested for a good while and finally headed to the master bathroom for a shower, Meng Ning had considered using the guest bathroom. But after a moment’s thought, she leaned against the wall outside the master bedroom door instead.

The sound of rushing water echoed from within.

With nothing to do, she stared down at her nails.

It was an ordinary little habit, but in the midst of this intimate night, it suddenly felt wrong. She dropped her hands.

Humans were rebellious creatures by nature, though.

The more improper it felt, the more she wanted to lift her hands and stare at them.

Her mind replayed the earlier scene: she sat calmly on the sofa as Wen Zenian straddled her lap, the evening gown wilting like a spent flower, its petals draping softly around her waist.

The small blue box sat on the coffee table—the one whose ring Wen Zenian had slipped onto her finger.

Even a woman performing such an act was breathtakingly beautiful. Her slender, pale fingers were like a thin veil of moonlight and mist, ready to slip into a lush, erotic dream.

The black skirt concealed certain motions, or perhaps rendered them even more tantalizingly suggestive. Wen Zenian’s palm braced against the sofa back, and in one instant, Meng Ning felt like a field of wheat, with Wen Zenian as a wanderer undulating in her embrace.

She tried to keep her gaze clear and her face impassive, but only she knew the truth: as she watched Wen Zenian, sweat beaded at her temples, and she pressed her lips together, numb from the effort of restraint.

Then she called out, “President Wen.”

Wen Zenian’s eyes blurred for a moment.

The C Hotel Group followed foreign traditions, using English names among colleagues. As a high-ranking executive, few called her “President Wen.” And now, the person she’d once idolized in her youth addressed her with crisp respect in that clear voice—”President Wen”—while her other hand performed the exact opposite, urging her to take the lead.

Meng Ning said, “Next time you wear an evening gown like this, I’ll punish you just like before.”

Wen Zenian’s heart felt on the verge of explosion.

She was wildly infatuated with Meng Ning responding to her possessiveness in kind.

So what if desire was an endless abyss? Wen Zenian thought.

She plunged in headlong, her skirt blooming like petals. She sought no burial ground; she gave herself wholly to sate Meng Ning’s insatiable hunger.

Control and submission were two sides of the same coin. Didn’t some know that? Yukio Mishima had said the rose and the snake were the most intimate of friends, transforming into each other by night—the snake’s cheeks blooming red, the rose’s scales aglitter.

Was she the one under Meng Ning’s control? Then why the intensity in Meng Ning’s eyes? Why that subtle curl of her lips?

She loved the way Meng Ning watched her frown. “Meng Ning,” she reminded her, “you need to breathe, too.”

As Wen Zenian showered, she reflected that ultimate pleasure was often followed by profound emptiness.

Like that night after confirming their relationship, when she’d stood alone on the balcony, smoking for what felt like ages.

Afterward, she’d been utterly spent, slumped on the sofa for a long rest while Meng Ning held her shoulders, her cheek pressed to Wen Zenian’s forehead. Wen Zenian kept her eyes downcast, feeling fine beads of sweat at the roots of her lashes.

She didn’t actually want to meet Meng Ning’s gaze.

She loved when Meng Ning lost herself in their pleasure. Yet she feared Meng Ning lost herself only in that pleasure. She dreaded lifting her eyes to find Meng Ning dazed and distant, as if lost in confusion about her place—or their relationship.

So she showered for a long time. When she emerged, she found Meng Ning leaning against the wall, lips pursed in a small smile.

Meng Ning said deliberately, “You’ve taken off your makeup.”

Wen Zenian steadied her emotions. “Aren’t you going to wash up? Aren’t you tired?” She drew out her words playfully. “Oh, right—the tired one is me.”

Meng Ning grinned and straightened up. “I’ll go now.”

“Why didn’t you go earlier?” Wen Zenian called after her. “What were you waiting here for?”

Meng Ning turned back slowly. “Nothing much. You drank tonight.”

Afraid you’d slip and fall.

Wen Zenian’s hand clenched fiercely beneath the hem of her bathrobe, then relaxed. Her expression remained nonchalant as she smiled. “Acting like this makes me think you actually like me.”

She walked toward the skincare area. “Go wash up.”

As she passed Meng Ning, Meng Ning didn’t move at first—but just as she was about to step away, Meng Ning hugged her from behind.

She pressed her face to the nape of Wen Zenian’s neck, against her freshly blow-dried hair that still held a trace of warmth. “Take out the ‘think.'”

There was a hint of grievance in her tone, buried deep.

Wen Zenian’s shoulders stiffened.

Meng Ning hugged her tightly from behind; Wen Zenian couldn’t see her face but sensed a slight tremble.

She lifted her own hand, found Meng Ning’s, and gave her fingertips a gentle squeeze.

She felt aggrieved, too.

For Meng Ning. For herself. For the lonely electronic lock waiting in vain. For the fingerprint enrollment manual that had appeared at the entryway only to be shoved back in the drawer.

“Come here,” she called to Meng Ning.

She led her to the windowsill in the master bedroom, where a delicate little flowerpot sat.

“I’ve planted the gardenia seeds,” Wen Zenian said.

Meng Ning eyed the pot. “You definitely didn’t buy them yourself.”

Wen Zenian smiled faintly. “Fine, you’re right—I didn’t.”

She’d had her assistant do it; she hadn’t had time.

“But I scattered the seeds myself,” she added.

“Wait, really?” Meng Ning grew anxious. “Can you even do that? What if they don’t survive?”

She pinched Meng Ning’s side softly, without much force, her touch limp and gentle.

Meng Ning clutched her side and laughed.

“How long did you say it takes to bloom last time?” Wen Zenian asked. “Five months?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Silence fell. Neither voiced what they both knew: five months from now, where would Meng Ning be? Where would Wen Zenian be? What would become of them?

Wen Zenian pressed her lips together. “Your final psychological assessment is next week.”

“Oh.” Meng Ning sounded calm. “Got it.”

Wen Zenian hesitated for a long time, but in the end, she still didn’t say, “I’ll come back to keep you company.”

She was afraid of seeing Meng Ning’s forced smile, the one that pretended everything was fine. She dreaded even more the blank look in Meng Ning’s eyes—the fleeting emptiness right before her smile bloomed at the news of her return.