Chapter 50

*Crush: A Glimpse of Dawnlight*
The moon quietly hid behind the clouds. In the sealed space, only a dim, yellow bedside lamp remained. Its blurred halo made the atmosphere even more ambiguous.
Qin Sang’s posture was a little awkward. Xie Yuncheng sat on the carpet by the bed, while she leaned into his arms, stretching toward him to kiss him—only light, fleeting touches. The man’s hand steadied her slender waist, then slid to cup the back of her neck. He didn’t use force; instead, he stroked, again and again, the pulse beating beneath her skin.
“Sang-sang… are you willing?”
His voice was hoarse, and those amber eyes were stained with heat—so much so that the usual clarity was nowhere to be found. He seemed to be waiting for her answer, yet the hand clasping the soft flesh at her nape scraped against the bit of exposed skin, each pass a touch heavier than the last.
She didn’t answer. She chose to tell him with action.
At first, she only arched slightly at the waist as she kissed him, but after a while it inevitably became tiring. Her waist ached; she panted. The man simply lifted her and sat her in his lap. With the positions swapped, she ended up looking down at him instead.
In the night, with light and shadow shifting, she pecked and traced that pair of eyes, brushed past the bridge of his nose, the corner of his lips, and only at the end did she kiss the throat that rolled with barely restrained desire.
She still liked having control over the kiss. She also liked hearing his breathing, gradually thrown into disorder by her—ragged and damp, the rhythm sinking heavier and heavier.
She held his face, lowered her head, and kissed him with focus, imitating him and the shallow, naïve bits of sexual knowledge Liu Chengcheng had crammed into her back in high school. She felt her way forward, slowly: biting his lip, tracing carefully, then testing the waters as she pried at the corner of his mouth—perhaps because her move was a little bold.
Qin Sang clearly felt the change in his body. His thigh muscles stiffened, tauter than before. The hand that had only loosely pressed at her nape suddenly increased its strength, gripping her neck and drawing her down.
She didn’t have much experience. Her “control” lasted barely two seconds before she surrendered.
Men’s talent in this kind of thing was astonishing—as if they were born knowing. Even though Xie Yuncheng’s experience wasn’t any more than hers, and his physical contact with women was practically zero, he still took over with practiced ease.
She was forced to lower her head and kiss him. What began as her cautious probing was now completely caught. His kiss was nothing like his usual way of doing things. It was forceful, overbearing, barely giving her a chance to breathe—as if it were steadily devouring her will.
Her body was soft, and now even more so—like a snowflake that had fallen beneath a bright fire hood, slowly melting into water as it was warmed. The hem of her loose sweater offered almost effortless space. Her milk-coffee-colored skirt flared like an umbrella as it draped over the carpet, the soft fabric pressing against the crisp line of the man’s suit pants.
In the quiet night, their mingled breaths were audible. Every so often, there were tiny, warbling sounds—either the breathy noises she couldn’t suppress because the kiss was too suffocating, or pleas and warnings. She grabbed his shirt and pushed hard at his shoulder.
Xie Yuncheng kissed the corner of her lips, waiting for her to catch her breath, and chuckled in a low, hoarse voice. “Sang-sang, the old house isn’t well soundproofed. Grandpa and the others are next door.”
Qin Sang bit her lip. “I don’t want to either. It’s all your fault.”
It felt like sneaking around in a secret high-school romance—holding hands and kissing right under the parents’ noses. She was nervous. That strange, inexplicable pleasure seemed to stream through her whole body in fine threads, tightening even her scalp.
She really did like kissing. In the past, she’d only thought it was just two people exchanging saliva—neither hygienic nor beautiful—so she rarely took romance scenes. Even when she did, she seldom accepted scripts that relied on explicit passion to grab attention.
She didn’t like overly intimate contact with unfamiliar men. That kind of touch made her feel uncomfortable all over.
Before, Liu Chengcheng had only ever dragged her under the dorm blanket to read blush-inducing romance novels and comics. But they were girls then—naïve and ignorant, and she’d never dated. How would she know what it was actually like in practice?
Yet back then, Xie Yuncheng was always a topic they brought up again and again. She really had dreamed—her very first bright spring dream in life had been about him.
Liu Chengcheng had said, “Haven’t you read? In novels, the more aloof and frigid-looking someone is, the more savage they are in reality. And I think God Xie’s hands would be really good at it. I heard he can even play the piano—people who play piano have natural advantages in their hands. What a pity… no idea who’ll have the blessing to enjoy that in the future. Otherwise I’d really want to ask what it feels like—because whether practice matches theory, only people who’ve been through it know.”
Qin Sang’s misty eyes were heavy-lidded. Her long hair slid off her shoulder; the ends tickled the man’s throat. She lowered her head, her brows and eyes stirred with emotion, concentrating on this lingering, tender kiss.
He seemed to slow down, becoming exceptionally patient. He shaped her lips at an unhurried pace, guiding her little by little through breathing, letting her get used to the rhythm of the kiss.
Half-dazed, she thought of the past, and then—aware—she realized Xie Yuncheng’s hands really were “good.” But he was restrained and controlled. Even with his hand at her waist, he only moved slowly, now and then, stroking the bony ridge at her lower back.
But he especially loved kissing her—until she went limp all over, her arms soft and powerless as they hung down, hugging him tightly for support. Her slender, pale fingers sank into the black hair at his crown. His hair was short—probably because of work, he didn’t like it long—but it was very soft, like a tuft of cotton.
If he hadn’t been biting her so hard, and if the way he pecked and kissed her hadn’t been so wicked, she might truly have thought she was petting a cat—a lazy, languid big cat, eyes half-closed as it lay there letting you do as you pleased. But in truth, its lowered tail had already swept behind her, winding around her legs, then hooking her slim waist, leaving her nowhere to run.
Qin Sang felt her lips go a little numb and weak. When she tried to retreat, he suddenly attacked again, laughing in a rough whisper. “Sang-sang—have you improved?”
Qin Sang found it unbearable, and also a little funny. So he still remembered what she’d said before—that his kissing wasn’t any good.
She didn’t believe he couldn’t tell she’d only been stubborn. But he was terribly mean—he insisted on making her admit she was lying. Or perhaps he was simply enjoying the feeling of watching her slowly sink, as if he had already completely taken over her mind, controlled her body, and could do with her as he pleased.
Qin Sang wanted to say no, but her body betrayed her. Her lips were nearly numb, even breathing and swallowing were difficult. Her eyes were watery, lashes damp, and the tiny beads of tears soaked the beauty mark beneath the corner of her eye, making her look even more pitiful.
So kissing could make a person lose themselves entirely—so dizzy they couldn’t think. She felt weak, like a light cloud, like water that could hold all rivers. And yet she was burning hot. It was almost the start of winter; the temperature had dropped sharply in the deep night—yet she felt unbearably feverish, as if someone had lit a fire inside her, so intense it even made her eyelids ache.
She mumbled, her voice already sticky like melted sugar. “It’s… okay.”
How could it be just okay? She could barely tell east from west. Yet her hands didn’t stop. Restless, she undid a few buttons down from his collar. He disliked being too proper in a suit—she’d always known Xie Yuncheng was someone who hated restraints.
When she clung to him in her discomfort, her nails scraped across his neck, leaving a thin scratch. It wasn’t obvious—just a little blood seeping now, scary-looking more than anything.
In the lamplight, she could barely make out the man leaning against the bed. His collar was messy. The shirt that had been neatly pressed was now wrinkled and abused. His clear brows and eyes carried a lazy hint of a smile. He was looking at her—his gaze like a hook.
He leaned back languidly, one hand still resting at her waist—almost no barrier at all—pressed against her abdomen. Warm and dry, as if it fanned the fire inside her even higher.
Qin Sang couldn’t help thinking: even if he did nothing at all, even if he just lay there lazily, that noble, idle air was enough to be tempting. No wonder people in their club had given him the nickname “top card.” If he truly wanted to, he could probably drive people crazy.
Qin Sang had no resistance left. But she also didn’t have the strength to do anything more. She simply let her body go slack, sitting on his thigh and leaning on him to rest.
“Sang-sang.” Xie Yuncheng stroked her waist lightly, again and again. His fingertips had a thin layer of callus that scraped at her tender skin, making it itch. She couldn’t help wanting to dodge, but she was too weak to fend him off and could only allow it.
Qin Sang was actually quite ticklish. That was why she didn’t like overly intimate contact with outsiders, especially men. Her neck and waist were her most sensitive places.
Xie Yuncheng seemed to know exactly where her weakness was. He idly hooked his fingers at her waist, not in a hurry to do anything else. He only lowered his eyes to watch her, then kissed her eyes—brushing over her damp lashes—slowly, as if savoring an exquisite cream cake. The cream was sweet, thick in texture, and addictive.
Her neck was slender, thin and fragile—like prey pinned down beneath a black panther’s claws and fangs. She had accidentally fallen into his trap. With no way out, the prey could only curl up, trembling, feeling cold fangs seize the soft flesh at the back of her neck. The fangs were sharp, pointed, grazing over skin. Her blood pulsed harder and harder, as if it had sensed danger.
“Sang-sang.” He almost pressed against the rim of her ear, calling her name over and over. His breath was hot, his voice low and husky. The little rationality Qin Sang had left was coaxed away, bit by bit, until nothing remained.
She felt uncomfortable, yet couldn’t say exactly where. She just wanted to kiss him. So she responded without any method—kissing his face, his neck—like a reckless little white rabbit that couldn’t find a way out, darting about without logic or rules, running wild in someone else’s house.
She wanted to open her eyes, but her lids wouldn’t lift. She felt him kissing the beauty mark beneath her eye, very gently. He seemed to really like that tear mole. His wet lips fell at the corner of her eye—light as a feather, leaving a tingling, numbing sensation.
Suddenly, without a sound, he kissed her eyes, then her nose. Countless tiny kisses fell like raindrops. Even though her reason was swollen with pain under that blazing fire, he still held her with utmost tenderness. He helped her stand, restraining himself, saying nothing—only kissing, again and again, the ear that had already flushed pink, murmuring love words by her ear:
“Sang-sang, I like you.”