Chapter 39 - Parallel Lines

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Chapter 39

 

 

For young, virile men, when they were idle and naked—when twenty minutes had barely passed since their last heated bout, and they were still tangled together—it was only natural that another round would begin.

 

The couch was a bit too cramped, and his waist was still too weak to put up much resistance. The moment Shuai Zhaomin felt that stiffening heat pressing against his backside again, he wasted no time leaping off Tengshe's lap.

 

"Bed." He grabbed his glasses from the side, and as his vision cleared, the sight before him made his face flush—Tengshe's body was covered in bite marks, scratches, and the traces of their earlier passion.

 

"Mr. Shuai, I really do love your bluntness." The words dripped with irony as Tengshe let out a low chuckle, gripping Shuai Zhaomin's hand to pull himself up. His muscles flexed and tensed with the movement—an utterly mesmerizing sight.

 

Their lips found each other again, unwilling to part as they stumbled toward the bed. Not looking where they were going had its consequences—Shuai Zhaomin's knee knocked into a marble table, sending a vase tumbling to the floor as he landed against the cold surface.

 

Tengshe swiftly wedged himself between his legs, strong arms lifting his thighs. It wasn't the most comfortable position for either of them—Shuai Zhaomin had only a small part of his lower back resting on the chilly tabletop, while Tengshe was nearly half-crouched over him.

 

Making love like this felt more like an extreme sport… Shuai Zhaomin bit down on the tongue entwined with his own, but before he could even think of protest, Tengshe was already inside.

 

How many times had they done it? Neither of them had the patience to count. In the end, they finally made it to the bed, where they finished properly and collapsed into sleep.

 

When Shuai Zhaomin woke, the room was dark. The floor-to-ceiling curtains were drawn, shutting out even the city lights and the stars. His mind swayed in the darkness, caught in that hazy space between dream and reality.

 

He exhaled. His waist ached, and his muscles burned from overuse. Groping around, he found the bedside lamp and switched it on. The soft yellow glow felt piercing to his half-lidded eyes.

 

"You're awake."

 

The voice was cool, and it didn't come from the warm body curled behind him. The arm draped around his waist tightened slightly as he shifted, but the person behind him showed no signs of waking.

 

Of course, Tengshe would be more exhausted than him. Why was he always so obsessed with trying bizarre positions? His lower back was paying the price now.

 

Scratching his disheveled hair, he blindly fumbled around for his glasses on the nightstand, but before he could find them, a soft, cool hand took his wrist, turned it upward, and placed something in his palm.

 

"They fell to the foot of the bed," came a gentle, melodious voice tinged with an almost imperceptible sorrow.

 

Sliding his glasses on, Shuai Zhaomin saw a woman in a white dress seated primly on the armchair by the bed.

 

"Miss Sara," he acknowledged with a nod. Tengshe's arm around his waist restricted his movement, so he only adjusted his pillow to lean back more comfortably.

 

"Mr. Shuai, do you like Tengshe?" Sara shifted slightly, as if trying to ensure their eyes met. Yet, in the dim light, her gaze seemed to drift elsewhere.

 

"Why do you ask?"

 

Before they had sex, Tengshe had said something akin to a confession, but honestly, Shuai Zhaomin hadn't taken it to heart. He didn't believe love was something that could exist between them.

 

He felt desire for Tengshe, but desire and love were not the same. He was clear on that. At thirty-five years old, he wasn't some naïve teenager just discovering love for the first time.

 

And he was certain Tengshe understood the distinction as well. Love and dependence were two different emotions. What Tengshe was looking for in him was probably nothing more than a release—whether physical or emotional.

 

"He's a pitiful man. Uncle Alexander never truly loved him." Sara's voice was still cool, but there was a faint edge of resentment when she mentioned this "Uncle Alexander."

 

Shuai Zhaomin, however, had no interest in any of this. He already knew Tengshe's relationships with his parents were strained and that he was bound by his father's last words. Learning that his father's name was "Alexander" didn't make anything more compelling.

 

He hated being dumped with other people's emotional baggage. Other people's family affairs were none of his concern.

 

After working as a lawyer for so long, he'd seen every kind of sordid domestic scandal imaginable. Sorry, but he wasn't in the business of wasting sympathy.

 

"Miss Sara, I believe I already have a fairly good understanding of Mr. Tengshe's past. There's no need to retell an old story."

 

Tengshe's breath, warm and steady, brushed against his bare shoulder, and his body heat was pleasantly soothing against Shuai Zhaomin's skin. He was starting to feel drowsy again.

 

"You don't understand," Sara's eyes narrowed slightly, her delicate features twisting ever so slightly. "Mr. Shuai, I haven't told Tengshe this yet, but I think he's already guessed."

 

The sudden shift in topic barely held Shuai Zhaomin's attention. He responded with a yawn.

 

Damn it, should he have gone to a seminary instead? Why did this family always come to him with their confessions? Are there no churches in America? Seriously, what did this have to do with him?

 

"I, along with Taotie and Zhuque, didn't come to America by coincidence. We're here because of Tengshe."

 

No shit.

 

"Miss Sara, if you wouldn't mind, could you please get to the point?" Shuai Zhaomin cut in impatiently. These people had a habit of circling around a topic endlessly—what was this, a movie? He didn't need the whole setup and dramatic buildup. It was starting to get on his damn nerves.

 

Sara's hands clenched tightly on her lap, her delicate brows lifting slightly in displeasure. "Mr. Shuai, every word I say is the point."

 

He returned her declaration with a dry smile. He absolutely disagreed.

 

First of all, did she really think their arrival in America was solely for Tengshe's sake? What, like they weren't also here to see the Statue of Liberty? Maybe squeeze in some shopping on Fifth Avenue? Take a Hollywood tour while they were at it?

 

"Taotie doesn't concern me. He has no interest in taking over the family. He only cares about making glass and eating."

 

Sara continued on, idly smoothing the creases on her dress.

 

At the mention of Taotie, Shuai Zhaomin found his thoughts drifting to Serg—and his failed attempt to borrow a phone. Maybe once Sara was done with all this nonsense, she'd be kind enough to lend him hers.

 

"I despise Zhuque. He's been blindly obedient to Qingji since childhood. He's not a watchdog, yet he acts like one." Her soft voice dripped with scorn. "He's a fool. Qingji doesn't care about him—he only cares about inheriting the family."

 

Shuai Zhaomin found her words laughable.

 

If anything, they applied just as well to her.

 

He wasn't exactly a gentleman—though he played the role well—but he firmly believed in equality between men and women.

 

People who spent their time pointing fingers at others often failed to see that the rest of their fingers were pointed right back at themselves. Sara revolved around Tengshe just as much as Zhuque did. The only difference was, she had dragged him into this ridiculous orbit as well.

 

But rather than argue, he merely hummed in acknowledgment, giving her the illusion that he was listening. Hopefully, that would keep her talking until she got everything off her chest—so she wouldn't bother him anymore.

 

"Fitch is useless. He can't protect Tengshe."

 

Her fingers twisted into the fabric of her dress, knuckles white with tension. Even in the dim light, he could see the anger coloring her cheeks.

 

"Mr. Brelini can probably handle himself just fine," Shuai Zhaomin remarked, unimpressed. He agreed on one thing—Fitch didn't seem to serve much of a purpose beyond the bedroom. Even from the snippets of information Tengshe had shared, it was clear he never expected Fitch to be of any real use.

 

"Mr. Shuai, Grandfather has already issued the order. Once he passes, Tengshe will inherit the family."

 

Sara shot him a sharp look, clearly displeased by his indifference. "Do you understand what that means?"

 

"I don't want to."

 

His polite smile remained, but his voice was unwavering.

 

"Mr. Shuai, do you like Tengshe?" Sara bit her lip, the steadiness of her voice faltering, the question catching in her throat.

 

"Not quite." His fingers wound idly through his short, curly black hair. Tengshe's breathing remained even, still deeply asleep.

 

He had never seen Tengshe's sleeping face before. He was actually a little curious.

 

After spending so much time together, he had caught glimpses of something almost childlike in Tengshe's expressions at times. Would he look the same in his sleep?

 

The warmth of their skin pressed together was pleasant. Beneath the silky smoothness of his flesh, the solid, well-built muscles rose and fell in rhythm with his own breathing.

 

"What do you mean by that?" Sara's voice dropped, edged with menace—the kind of cold ruthlessness befitting a mafia daughter.

 

She was clearly a young and lovely woman, so why did she make herself so hard and sharp? Shuai Zhaomin shrugged. "Miss Sara, do you have a cigarette?"

 

"A cigarette?" Sara hesitated, her expression briefly stiffening, but she still fished out a pack from her pocket.

 

"Figures. Girls usually go for lighter smokes." He eyed the pale green pack—he recognized the brand. He'd half-expected her to be like Tengshe, exclusively favoring Italian products for everything from clothes to food. "Mind if I take one?"

 

It was a bit of a bad habit. When he was in a foul mood, Shuai Zhaomin smoked to relax. The other time he craved a cigarette was after sex. A post-coital smoke? Absolutely blissful.

 

"Mr. Shuai, I believe you understand what I'm trying to say." Sara frowned but handed him a cigarette, tossing over the lighter as well.

 

Holding the cigarette between his lips, he lit it. The faint tang of nicotine curled through his chest, swirling lazily before he exhaled toward the ceiling.

 

"Miss Sara, that has nothing to do with me." His smile was flawless, but the eyes behind his glasses remained frigid and detached.

 

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