Chapter 48: Melting

Wen Yinong was kissed into a daze, her whole body like a drowning fish, sinking and floating in the web of desire he had woven around her. Even breathing became difficult.

Just one second before she was about to sink completely under, a question abruptly fell by her ear, jolting her awake with a violent shudder.

The next second, the man's long fingers lifted her chin.

She was forced to tilt her face up, meeting those blue-black eyes.

Mo Shaoshang looked down at her from under lowered lids, his gaze descending from above, deep and dark, like a fathomless frozen sea, enveloping her entirely in its shadow.

"I seem to recall that before you asked for leave, you told me you were going home tonight to have dinner with your parents." His voice was very soft, even carrying a trace of lazy nonchalance.

Wen Yinong grew flustered. She swallowed almost imperceptibly and said, "Yes."

"Then keep telling me." As he spoke, Mo Shaoshang lowered his head, his thin lips brushing her cheek—once, then again—tender and lingering, like a feather skimming across water.

"Baby," he paused, his voice dropping lower, continuing almost word by word, "why were you with Pei Xizhou?"

Hearing this, Wen Yinong's heart sank.

He really had seen them after all.

In truth, Mo Shaoshang's tone was mild, his expression perfectly calm. But under these circumstances, that very gentleness and composure was all the more terrifying.

Like the stillness before a storm destroys the world.

Wen Yinong guessed he had misunderstood. Her lips moved as she explained, "I didn't lie to you. Tonight, I really did go back to my parents' home for dinner. I just never expected that my mother would also invite Dr. Pei over—she said she wanted to thank him for taking care of my grandfather at the hospital a while back..."

Before she finished speaking, she saw the look in Mo Shaoshang's eyes turn abruptly colder by several degrees.

Not anger, not violence. But something deep, unknown, dangerous—impossible to define with any exact word. Like an undercurrent surging beneath the deep sea, ready at any moment to detonate a tsunami.

A moment later, she heard him speak again, saying coolly, "It seems your father and mother are quite fond of Dr. Pei."

Looking at that handsome face so close to hers, Wen Yinong's heartbeat suddenly skipped half a beat.

Perhaps it was an illusion.

But she faintly sensed that Mo Shaoshang seemed... uneasy.

This man who stood high above all, who was accustomed to controlling everything—in the depths of his eyes, fine, nearly invisible cracks of gloom had split open.

This kind of emotion, could it be...

Jealousy? Or envy?

The two words leapt into her mind without warning, leaving Wen Yinong stunned.

Her entire heart went soft.

"Everyone has their own thoughts." Wen Yinong's voice softened. She met his gaze, each word spoken earnestly and clearly. "I can't control what my parents think. I only need to know what I think."

Mo Shaoshang continued to watch her, his gaze never shifting.

Then he raised his hand, fingertips gently tracing her soft features, the damp, reddened corners of her eyes, and asked, as if casually, "And what do you think?"

Wen Yinong's heart pounded like war drums.

Clearly, this man was angry. Even though his eyes were calm and his cold, stern face betrayed no excess emotion.

Psychology said that a person in the grip of fury cannot take in any explanation. Which meant that right now, no amount of explaining or defending would be anything but pale, powerless, useless effort.

If she truly wanted to soothe his emotions, she had to do something.

...Yes. She had to do something.

Last time, just because she'd exchanged a few extra words with Pei Xizhou, this man had gone mad and forcibly kissed her in the underground wine cellar, nearly biting her lip open.

A fall into the pit, a gain in wisdom—she had no desire to relive that experience.

Thinking this, Wen Yinong gritted her teeth, steeled her heart, and simply threw caution to the wind.

Then, mustering her courage, blushing furiously, she reached out and wrapped her arms around Mo Shaoshang's neck. Rising on tiptoe, she pressed her cheek softly against his.

And planted a kiss at the corner of his mouth.

Mo Shaoshang's gaze sharpened slightly.

The touch of a feather, like mist and like cloud, brushed across his cheek, gone in an instant—yet it also lightly stirred his heart.

His pupils contracted faintly for a moment; his eyes abruptly darkened, fathomless.

Then Mo Shaoshang felt the young woman embrace him and bury her head in the crook of his neck. She spoke, her voice low and gentle, almost coaxing: "We're already in a relationship. We're a couple. Don't let your imagination run wild."

At this, Wen Yinong paused for half a second, as if shy and nervous all at once. Her voice grew even softer as she continued, somewhat mumbled, "Of course the one I think about is you. You're the one who's my boyfriend."

The instant those words landed, the gallery fell into utter silence.

The next moment, her eyes flew wide as a large hand suddenly clamped around the back of her head.

And pushed her forward.

The man's lips came crushing down on hers once more.

This kiss was different from the lingering ones before—no longer delicate grinding, no more patient, coaxing exploration.

It was the most direct taking, the most frenzied plunder.

His thin, smooth lips worked over the corner of her mouth; his teeth nibbled and gnawed at her lower lip, wickedly tugging, wantonly invading, drawing out a faint sting of pain.

Wen Yinong whimpered softly at the hurt, and the man's tongue began tracing the shape of her lips—left to right, top to bottom—sparing not an inch, not a fraction, as if savoring a dessert fresh from the oven.

Only when she had been kissed limp all over by that tormenting kiss, her lips parting involuntarily, did Mo Shaoshang's tongue formally invade her mouth.

Abandoning its earlier brutish siege, it slowed, softened, hooking around hers, twining with it—now close, now retreating, playing hard to get.

A tongue that did not belong to her churned inside her mouth, overturning heaven and earth, carrying a sense of invasion she could not resist.

Wen Yinong was kissed into delirium, her face burning redder, her legs going so weak she could barely stand.

Mo Shaoshang noticed. His arm swept around her and lifted her entire body up.

A soft hum escaped from deep in Wen Yinong's throat as she felt her legs parted, wrapping around the man's lean, narrow waist.

Then his body spun, and he set her directly on top of the nearby display cabinet.

The cabinet's surface was cold and hard; where it met Wen Yinong's feverish skin, the chill made her shiver. But just as her lips moved to speak, the man's tall body pressed against her again, pinning her firmly between the cabinet and his chest.

He went on kissing her.

This time, his thin lips no longer lingered only on her mouth, her tongue.

He kissed along her jaw, kissed her earlobe, kissed the slender side of her neck. Waves of warm, soft sensation fell upon stretches of sensitive skin, stirring shudder after shudder.

In her hazy daze, broken whimpers spilled from the girl's lips.

The sound was soft, sweet and muddled, like sleep-talk.

Porcelain-white, slender fingers clutched tight at the fabric of the man's suit.

The wet, heated kisses traveled onward, moving lower.

Wen Yinong's collarbone, her shoulders, the curve of her heart—each place was branded with his mark.

When had the buttons come undone? She had no recollection at all.

Her face was flushed, her eyes brimming with moisture, completely lost. In her muddled haze, the world before her was a blur; she could see nothing clearly.

Only the man's lips, tongue, and fingers brought stimulation sharp to the extreme.

Suddenly, a deep suck.

Wen Yinong's mind went blank; white light flashed before her eyes. Helpless and at a loss, she could only instinctively wrap her arms around his neck, melting her soft body entirely into his embrace.

The gesture provoked an even more intense response.

Mo Shaoshang's breathing grew heavy and rough. Dark currents surged in the depths of his blue-black eyes; he was still restraining himself with all his might.

Wen Yinong had assumed the man would take things a step further.

Yet he only kissed her.

Kissed every inch of her skin.

Amid the rising and falling waves of heat, Wen Yinong's thoughts scattered, and for no reason she remembered something her college Italian teacher had once said.

That silver-haired old lady had smilingly told her students: Italians are not like the reserved, implicit Chinese. Their emotions are outward, their expressions direct, unabashed. They never conceal their love, and they never stint on sweet words.

When she'd first met Mo Shaoshang, she'd thought the man cold and restrained, even a bit rigidly unapproachable.

Only now, after several intimate encounters, did she understand that "restraint" was merely one of his masks.

The real him was like a willfully burning flame—scorching, crazed, liable to spiral out of control at any moment.

And she had already been set ablaze by that flame.

She was bewitched by him. Her heart drawn to him, her body addicted to him.

She had been dragged by him into this blaze kindled from desire, burning fiercely...

She didn't know how much time passed.

The fierce wind outside the museum finally died down. Moonlight spilled through the clouds, casting swaying tree shadows onto the glass of the building's domed ceiling. The whole world was soundless, save for the two of them, their breaths intertwined.

Wen Yinong leaned against Mo Shaoshang's chest, panting softly.

Her eyes were full of mist, moist and hazy, like a lake surface freshly washed by spring rain. A few fine droplets clung to her lashes, trembling as she blinked.

Mo Shaoshang lowered his gaze to the girl in his arms.

Her cheeks were rosy, the corners of her eyes flushed with two bewitching patches of red. Her gaze was silk-soft and seductive, every ripple of her eyes full of allure. Her long hair was slightly mussed, a few damp strands clinging to her cheeks, making that small face all the more lush and enchanting.

Like a soul-stealing enchantress out of Norse myth.

His eyes went extremely dark. On an impulse, he lowered his head and bit lightly at those slightly swollen lips.

"Rosalini," he murmured, low and hoarse.

Wen Yinong's mind was still spinning. At the word, she lifted her head in a daze to look at him, her wet eyes filled with confusion.

"My Italian name." Mo Shaoshang said softly, his gaze falling on her face, so deep it seemed to want to pull her in. "From now on, in private, you may call me that."

Rosalini.

Luo Sa Li Ni...

Wen Yinong's gaze flickered.

The word, its pronunciation rounded and gorgeous, flowed slowly between lips and teeth like the deep final note of a cello. It made her think of mysterious creatures in the depths of a blue-black ocean—distant, solitary, beautiful, enigmatic.

Wind crossing the lake of her heart, raising a strange ripple.

After two seconds of hesitation, Wen Yinong blinked and tentatively tried it out: "Rosalini?"

Her voice was soft and clinging, carrying the hoarseness and languor of one just thoroughly loved. The name, spoken by her, somehow gained a saccharine sweetness—like berries coated in honey, sweet to the point of temptation.

Mo Shaoshang's throat bobbed faintly.

A long-dormant hunger within him fully revived. This unfamiliar restlessness, this loss of control, this exhilaration—nearly devoured his soul.

And he welcomed it with delight.

Mo Shaoshang lowered his head and gently licked Wen Yinong's lips, then, pressed against them, murmured in Italian:

"Il mio nome italiano suona così bene sulla tua bocca. Mi piace quando lo pronunci, piccolina."

My Italian name sounds so beautiful on your lips.

I love it when you say it, baby.

Wen Yinong's ears instantly burned. Embarrassment and sweetness tangled together; the corners of her mouth curved up involuntarily as she said, "Are all Italian men's mouths as sweet as yours?"

Mo Shaoshang smiled: "Forse (Perhaps)."

*

The next morning.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the dining room of the Mo estate, warming the whole room. Outside, the fountain pool shimmered; a few white doves alighted at its edge, lowering their heads to drink.

Wen Yinong sat at the table, keeping Airi company over breakfast.

The little one had a good appetite today, gripping his own little spoon and feeding himself. His posture was a bit awkward, but at least he managed to get the food into his mouth.

As Wen Yinong interacted with Airi, her gaze drifted from time to time toward the seat of honor across from her.

Mo Shaoshang had been nowhere in sight since early morning; Uncle Heng said he had gone to the company.

Wen Yinong lowered her eyes, poked at the fried egg on her plate with her fork, remembered something, and her ears warmed slightly.

After two seconds of thought, she picked up her phone and found the night-sky avatar in her WeChat contacts.

She deleted the old remark name and typed in a new one: Rosalini

*

Nine a.m. Jinghai CBD core district, Mo Corporation headquarters.

The silver-gray skyscraper rose like a sword thrust into the clouds. Its glass curtain wall refracted dazzling light in the sun, the whole city's splendor laid out below.

In the top-floor office, the floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city's entire skyline. Clouds flowed beneath one's feet; looking down, the normally bustling streets were reduced to a few fine lines, like the creases in a giant palm.

Mo Shaoshang stood before the window, backlit, his silhouette straight and cold. The glass reflected a hard, sculpted profile and a pair of indifferent blue-black eyes.

From behind came a knock, measured and deferential: knock knock.

"Come in."

Lin Ke pushed the door open and entered, a folder in hand. He stopped three paces behind Mo Shaoshang, bowed slightly, and spoke in a low voice.

"Sir, the investment department submitted a project today." Lin Ke opened the folder, his tone as respectful and steady as ever. "The COLRA private credit fund, primarily in accounts receivable factoring. The underlying assets are receivables from several top-credit-rating European giants. The risk rating is very low, and the returns are quite impressive."

Mo Shaoshang acted as if he hadn't heard a word.

He gazed out at that boundless horizon, his face utterly expressionless.

A long while passed.

"What does risk control say?"

"Word has already reached the compliance department." Lin Ke paused a beat, then continued, "Director Han Minshan is personally overseeing this project. Reportedly, he's very optimistic about it."

The words landed, and the office fell into brief silence.

Only the howling wind outside the window, and the faint, distant clamor of the city.

"Understood," Mo Shaoshang said coolly, his tone nonchalant.

Lin Ke closed the folder, lowered his eyes with a nod, turned, and withdrew.

Mo Shaoshang was alone in the office.

He stood erect before the floor-to-ceiling window, his gaze fixed on the distant depths of the sea of clouds. Sunlight streamed in through the glass, gilding him in a golden rim—yet it could not reach those blue-black eyes.

Outside, the clouds drifted slowly on; the entire city lay prostrate beneath his feet.

Just then, the phone on the desk chimed with a ding—a new message.

Mo Shaoshang picked it up, lowered his eyes, unlocked it.

CheeseSweetMoon: [It's so cold today, remember to wear extra layers when you go out ^.^]

Looking at the words in the chat box, a faint arc curved at the corner of Mo Shaoshang's mouth. His fingertip shifted, and he replied: [Okay]

*

Ten a.m. In the investment department's conference room, a project presentation was underway.

On the projection screen, an elegant slideshow flipped page by page. Charts and figures, professional jargon, and enticing yield forecasts flickered and shifted in the dimmed room.

Sun Dafu, in a dark gray suit, stood before the screen, beaming as he presented to the attendees.

"Our department has been tracking this COLRA project for nearly three months." He pointed his laser pen at the data on screen. "The underlying assets are extremely high quality—receivables from those old established European industrial giants. Schneider, Kado, Angeli. Look at these ratings—AAA. Rock solid."

The middle-aged man at the head of the table was the investment department manager, surnamed He.

After hearing Sun Dafu out, Director He flipped through the materials in his hands and nodded in approval: "The numbers really are beautiful."

"More than beautiful," Sun Dafu picked up with a grin, the crow's feet at his eyes deepening with the smile. "I've talked privately with Director Han Minshan. If this project passes review, we won't have to worry about our KPIs for the next two years."

The people in the conference room were amused by the quip, chuckling softly one after another.

The mood was cheerful.

Then someone raised a hand to ask: "Returns this high with risk this low—it sounds a bit too perfect. We all know the situation in Europe; the economy's so sluggish over there. Aren't these giants having a hard time themselves?"

Sun Dafu waved a hand, his tone assured: "That's exactly what's brilliant about COLRA. They do receivables factoring, not direct lending. The debtors on these receivables are all top-tier enterprises; default risk is extremely low. Plus COLRA has its own insurance pool—multiple layers of risk control. You could practically call it a guaranteed profit."

The questioner nodded thoughtfully and said no more.

Sun Dafu swept his gaze around the room, his smile deepening.

"Everyone, if this project goes through, our department's performance this year really will be worry-free."

"Let's do this, then. Everyone go back and think it over carefully. In one week, we'll vote." Director He stood and looked around the conference room. "If two-thirds vote in favor, the COLRA project goes up the chain."

One week later.

The project smoothly passed the investment department's preliminary review.

Three days after that, the project materials were delivered to the risk control and compliance department.

Han Minshan sat in his office, adjusted the glasses on his nose, and carefully paged through the thick stack of documents before him. Outside the window stretched Jinghai's azure sky, the sunlight blindingly bright.

His gaze swept over several key figures, lingering on them for a long time. His brow knotted—then quickly smoothed again.

Han Minshan knew very well what lay hidden behind these numbers, these clauses, these layers of seemingly airtight logic.

Once the young master's plan succeeded, the entire Mo Corporation would face a financial earthquake powerful enough to bring mountains crashing down...

After a long moment.

Han Minshan removed his glasses and rubbed his brow. Then he drew a deep breath, let it out, uncapped his pen, and signed his name in the approval opinion column.

—Approved for submission to the Investment Decision Committee for deliberation.

*

Evening. The sun sank westward, dyeing the entire estate a warm orange-red.

In the playroom, Wen Yinong was giving Airi a language intervention session. She held a stack of cognition cards, showing them to Airi one by one.

"Airi, where's the apple?"

Airi glanced at the picture on the card and made no movement.

Wen Yinong was neither anxious nor impatient; she waited patiently. The light outside the window dimmed bit by bit, casting long shadows across the floor.

A few seconds later, Airi stretched out his little finger and lightly tapped the small red apple on the card.

Wen Yinong's eyes curved as she praised him with a smile: "Airi is amazing! Thumbs up!"

She was about to move on to the next card when the phone on the table suddenly rang.

Ding.

Wen Yinong picked it up absently and glanced at it.

The sender was [M].

She opened the message.

[M]: Eleven tonight. Wine cellar.

A few short words, casually written—yet they threw her heartbeat inexplicably out of rhythm.

Outside, the setting sun was sinking behind the distant mountains, its afterglow gently tracing the estate's outline. The shimmering light fell on her burning, reddened cheeks.

It had been a full week already.

Seven whole days—every night she received an invitation message from Mo Shaoshang.

By day, she was Airi's rehabilitation teacher, methodically giving the child his various intervention sessions.

But every nightfall, she would meet Mo Shaoshang in secret in the underground wine cellar.

In that private space stocked with countless wines and steeped in their fragrance, he kissed her without restraint, teased her, cherished her with lips and tongue together.

Nearly every time, he left her intoxicated beyond self-control, melted into a puddle of spring water, at his mercy.

Countless amorous scenes surfaced in her mind. Wen Yinong's face grew hotter, rose-colored clouds spreading from her cheeks all the way down to the base of her neck.

She lowered her eyes, bit her lip, her fingers absently brushing her earlobe.

Only when her heart had calmed somewhat did Wen Yinong secretly take a deep breath and force her attention back to Airi.

"Come on, Airi. Let's continue."

Outside the window, the sky darkened bit by bit, until the last trace of afterglow was swallowed by the night.

*

After the evening session ended, the housekeeper auntie took Airi back to his room to rest.

Wen Yinong returned to her bedroom and took a hot shower.

The warm water washing over her body made her briefly forget a whole day's fatigue. She changed into clean pajamas, blow-dried her hair, and when she'd finished tidying up, checked the time—exactly ten-thirty at night.

Recalling that WeChat message from her underground boyfriend, her whole face flushed with heat, and even her body went a little soft.

Thirty minutes to go.

Go early?

...Better not. It would make her look desperate to fool around with him.

Since she wouldn't go early, she might as well play some games to pass the time.

Thinking this, Wen Yinong lit up her phone screen and started playing her Go game.

But her heart was in disarray. Restless, unable to settle at all.

Wen Yinong played two straight rounds and was slaughtered both times by her opponents across the network.

After the word "Defeat" flashed on screen a second time, she finally gave up. Dismayed, she tossed the phone aside, let her shoulders slump, and threw herself heavily back into the soft bedding.

She barely managed to endure until ten-fifty.

She drew a deep breath, exhaled, steadied herself, pulled open the bedroom door, and walked out.

The corridor was empty.

Wen Yinong's footsteps were swallowed by the thick carpet; she felt as if she were walking on clouds, drifting through a dream.

At this hour, the estate's other occupants had long since gone to bed. The vast villa's interior was exceptionally quiet; only the stairwell sconces cast dim yellow halos, cutting the corridor into alternating segments of light and shadow.

She arrived at the wine cellar's entrance almost by familiar habit.

Glancing left and right to confirm no one could see her, she pushed open the entrance door, lifted the hem of her nightdress slightly, and descended the long stairs step by step.

The cellar was several degrees cooler than upstairs, touched with the particular chill of underground spaces. The air was rich with the fragrance of wine, mingled with the woody scent of oak barrels—heady enough to make one lightheaded.

It was utterly still all around.

So still that Wen Yinong could hear her own heartbeat quickening.

Thump, thump.

Without lingering near the entrance, she walked straight ahead, passing row upon row of orderly wine racks. Countless slumbering bottles gleamed faintly in the dimness, like the silent eyes of beasts, watching her without a sound.

Watching her walk toward the cellar's deepest reaches.

Coming to a tightly shut door, Wen Yinong closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath.

Then she raised her hand and knocked.

Knock knock.

She waited a few seconds in silence. No response from within.

Puzzled, she blinked and pressed her ear against the door panel.

Faint sounds of water came from inside. Pattering, trickling.

A thread of confusion quietly arose. Wen Yinong pressed her lips together, wrapped her fingers around the doorknob, and tried turning it.

The door wasn't locked.

Click—it opened.

Her heartbeat skipped several beats. Pressing her lips together, she lightened her steps and slowly walked in.

This room was Mo Shaoshang's lounge in the underground cellar: a traditional bedroom layout, with another door leading to a shower room and hot spring pool.

Right now, the sound of water from the bathroom went on and on.

The master of the wine cellar was bathing.

Wen Yinong stood where she was, her gaze sweeping over this bedroom she had visited several times before: simple tones, cold hard lines, an aloof chill emanating from every corner. At the center of the wall hung a huge oil painting in a distressed metal frame, vintage in style, richly textured. Because the room's lighting was dim, the painting's subject was unclear—she could only make out great swaths of deep blue...

Just then, the bathroom door's latch clicked softly as someone casually opened it a crack from inside.

"Bath towel."

The man's voice drifted out, steeped in steamy moisture and the bathroom's echo, sounding especially low—and inexplicably sexy.

"...Oh." Wen Yinong snapped out of it and quickly turned her head, searching the room with her eyes.

At the foot of the huge double bed stood a black leather chaise, on which a dark bath towel lay neatly folded, spotless.

She stepped forward, picked up the towel, walked to the bathroom door, and said softly, "I brought it for you."

As her words fell, a hand reached out through the crack in the door.

Long, cold-pale, well-knuckled.

Dripping with water.

The instant she saw that hand, Wen Yinong blinked, and a doubt suddenly formed in her mind:

Mo Shaoshang was showering.

But why was he showering here?

Was he planning to spend the night down here?

"..." The moment that thought surfaced, Wen Yinong's breathing tightened, a thin cherry-pink flush rising at the base of her neck. She felt lost and flustered.

She pressed her lips together and, steeling herself, held the towel out.

However, that beautiful large hand bypassed the towel.

And closed directly around Wen Yinong's slender wrist, yanking her inside in one pull.

Caught completely off guard, Wen Yinong was dragged into the steam-filled bathroom. Within a few short seconds, the world spun before her eyes, and her back slammed against the damp wall.

In the movement she must have bumped something—"slap"—the bathroom light went out.

The entire space plunged instantly into darkness.

Only the showerhead went on pattering with water, mist spreading everywhere, warm and humid.

In the dark, the man's blue-black eyes were inches away.

He stared straight at her, the depths of his gaze full of obsession verging on madness.

Wen Yinong's heart thundered under that look. Her lips wriggled twice, about to say something, but Mo Shaoshang spoke first.

"During the evening session just now." He lowered his head, his thin lips grazing the shell of her ear, his breath winding in strands around her sensitive ear, kissing it. "In seven minutes, Teacher Wen bit her own lip ten times and rubbed her earlobe five times."

"..."

"What were you nervous about?" As he spoke, Mo Shaoshang's long fingers parted the girl's two soft lips.

Slipping in.

Her eyes moist, she blinked in a daze and, almost instinctively, sucked gently on them.

So obedient.

"Don't you love the feeling of melting in my arms?" His lips curved as he lowered his head, Italian mingled with feverish desire pouring into her ear. "Piccolina (Baby)."

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Author's note: 100 random red envelopes—remember to bookmark the author's column, little darlings, so you'll know as soon as a new story opens. And if you have nutrient solution to spare, feel free to water this story generously. Thank you!