The bathroom door clicked open.
Steam came billowing out in a rush, carrying the crisp pine scent of body wash. A tall man stepped out of the mist in a dark gray bathrobe. The belt was tied loosely at his waist, the collar slightly open, revealing a broad stretch of sharply defined chest. Clear droplets traced down the hollow of his collarbone and slid into the folds of the robe.
Ji Zongting stood 189 centimeters tall, a full head taller than Wen Li. He was long and lean, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, the two long legs beneath the robe straight and powerful. His freshly washed black hair was slicked back wet, exposing a full forehead and a pair of eyes that the steam had only made deeper. The sinister edge between his brows hadn’t softened at all. If anything, the dampness lent it a sharper danger, like a leopard whose languor concealed a power that could erupt at any moment.
Yet his expression was as indifferent as ever, as if he had no idea every inch of him was dripping pheromones. That innate nobility tangled with the raw male presence pouring off him, and the air in the room thinned.
The moment that presence hit her, the taut string in Wen Li’s mind snapped. Her gaze fell, helpless, to the small patch of bare skin at his collar, and her thoughts slid, just as helplessly, to her last life.
Five years of marriage. Everything a married couple was meant to do, they had done. More than done. The frequency had been anything but low. Especially when Ji Zongting came back from a business trip, all those pent-up days made it seem like he wanted to devour her whole. Wen Li would be stuck indoors for at least a full day, too sore and shaky to climb out of bed.
So she had never once doubted his fidelity. Aside from that first stretch, when his technique left a great deal to be desired, Ji Zongting’s endowment was, frankly, generous. Especially in the last two years, once he’d accumulated enough experience, the two of them had been practically in perfect sync on that front.
The more she thought, the redder her face grew. Her ears burned. Her gaze drifted.
She stood there in a daze, her mind still replaying images entirely unsuitable for polite company, when a low voice dropped onto her from above.
“What are you thinking about…”
The voice paused, as if weighing its next words, then produced two characters she had never once heard from him.
“…Wife?”
Wen Li jolted, as if someone had jabbed her in the lower back, and snapped back to herself.
Wife? He called me wife?
When has Ji Zongting ever called me that?
Five whole years in her last life. She called him Mr. Ji. He called her Miss Wen. In public, at most a polite “my wife.” Even in bed, at their most intimate, he had never once used that word. Hearing “wife” come out of Ji Zongting’s mouth was rarer than the sun rising in the west.
“You—don’t call me that!” The words burst out of her, edged with panic.
Ji Zongting narrowed his eyes. Those water-darkened pupils studied her, and a flicker of something like confusion passed through them. He tilted his head, and the robe’s collar slipped a little wider, exposing a small stretch of firm chest muscle.
“I thought you liked it,” he said mildly.
Wen Li opened her mouth to say she didn’t, then swallowed the words.
Right. My plan.
Wasn’t she supposed to act out? Wasn’t she supposed to push him past his limit until he brought up the divorce himself?
From what she knew, Ji Zongting despised women who made scenes above all else, because to him, that was trouble. A clingy, delicate, dramatic, difficult wife was the last thing he wanted.
“Actually,” she said, pivoting hard, nodding firmly, “I—I do like it.”
Then she steeled herself and threw herself at him, diving headfirst into Ji Zongting’s arms. Her face pressed to his chest, her arms wrapped tight around his narrow waist. She began her performance in the sweetest, most cloying voice she could muster.
“Husband, we just got married and you went off on a business trip, fine, whatever. But you didn’t even take me with you. Three whole days, leaving me all alone at home. I missed you so much, boo-hoo…”
She put on her show while cheering herself on in her head.
Clingy! Delicate! Unreasonable! There’s no way he can stand this type!
In her last life, she had been as composed and reserved as a nun, and Ji Zongting had been perfectly content. Now that she had suddenly turned into a clingy little monster, with his personality, he’d be irritated beyond measure. He’d probably shove her away on the spot.
Push me. Come on, push me away.
Then I can throw a fit.
She was thinking about being pushed away, but her hands seemed to have a mind of their own, moving over Ji Zongting’s chest without her permission. Beneath her palm was firm, full pectoral muscle, and the feel of it was incredible. She couldn’t help giving it another touch. And another.
So soft. No, wait, hard. Hard and springy, and it feels so good.
Honestly, whatever other virtues Ji Zongting might have, she had yet to discover them. But this body of his really had no flaws to speak of. They were about to divorce anyway. Might as well enjoy it while she still could. No loss that way.
Wen Li found herself a perfectly reasonable excuse, and her hands grew bolder.
Ji Zongting’s body seemed to stiffen for a beat. Then a large hand closed around her pale, slender wrist.
He lowered his eyes to her, his gaze heavy, his voice faintly hoarse. “You… are a little different from what I imagined.”
Wen Li’s heart skipped, then flared with excitement.
Different is right! Can’t stand it anymore, can you?
So he really did prefer the old her, the composed, reserved, proper Wen Li. This clingy version, he definitely wasn’t buying.
She tipped her face up, deliberately widening her eyes into round, innocent circles, her lips puckered slightly, and deployed the most affected, cutesy voice of her life. “We were strangers before, so of course I had to be polite. This is the real me. Husband, don’t you like it?”
She had assumed her performance was enough to make any man recoil three steps.
Instead, Ji Zongting turned his head slightly, pulling his gaze off her face. His throat bobbed. A low cough escaped him.
Pressed against his chest, Wen Li felt his breathing change, the rise and fall of his ribcage quicken.
He lifted her hand off his chest, his grip light but carrying a note of restraint. “It’s not that I don’t like it,” he said, low.
His voice was a little hoarse, as if he were holding something back. He took her by the shoulders and eased her half a step from his arms, turning his face away. In the warm yellow lamplight, the line of his profile looked especially sharp. The bob of his throat, too, was keen as a shard of stone.
“All right, go downstairs and eat first. Anything else… we’ll talk about tonight.”
Wen Li stared at him, dumbfounded.
She stood frozen, watching Ji Zongting turn toward the walk-in closet, the hem of his robe swaying with each step. Her gaze drifted down an inch, then jerked back up.
Five years of marriage. She knew his physical responses intimately. That low cough. The hoarse pitch. The deliberately averted gaze. The distance he had put between them when he pushed her away. He was clearly aroused.
But I didn’t even do anything! I hugged him, grabbed a couple of feels, and called him husband a few times in a squeaky voice.
That’s all it takes?