When Ruan Qingci hooked Fu Jinye's waist for the first time, his fingertips were still stained with champagne bubbles. She tapped his Adam's apple with three bean paste-red nails: "No overnight stay, no entanglement, no interference." The man was wearing work clothes stained with engine oil, and his stubble pricked her palms. He just chuckled and crushed her rules into the carpet.
After three months of romance, she found an unfamiliar cherry-flavored lipstick in his car, turned around and blocked all contact information. She was the young lady from an aristocratic family holding a celadon vase in the gallery, and he was the hustler rumored in the streets. They were supposed to be two parallel lines that would never intersect.
Until the Fu Group's donation ceremony, a man in a straight suit stretched out his hand to her, his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses seemed to have hardened: "Teacher Ruan, long time no see."
Her knuckles turned white as she clenched the lesson plan, and she just wanted to escape.
But she was blocked by him in the shadow of the teaching aid room, her expensive custom-made suit weighing down her gauze skirt. "What are you hiding from?" Fu Jinye pinched the back of her neck, his voice wrapped in hot breath, "Didn't I say that I only talk about desire?"
Outside the door was the sound of students discussing Mr. Fu's abdominal muscles. Inside the door, he grabbed her hand and pressed it to his waist, and the scorching temperature seeped through his shirt.
"Now," he bit her earlobe and chuckled, "talk about your heart. It's not a foul, right?"
