"Sister, don't throw me away."
He pressed down on me, eyes rimmed red, whimpering the same plea over and over — don't make me leave, don't make me leave. So helpless, so pitiful. And yet not once did he ease up.
By the early hours, Jiang Rong was finally satisfied. He pulled me close and refused to let go.
"Get off." I was so thoroughly worn out I could barely lift my hand. My voice came out soft, almost boneless.
In bed, Jiang Rong had no fear of me. He lay there, unmoved, and held on tighter — nuzzling his face deeper into the curve of my neck.
"I said, get off."
"Sister." He lifted his head suddenly. His eyes were bloodshot, full of a young man's stubborn hurt. "We're not over, are we?"
I couldn't hold his gaze. I turned away. "If we're not over, are you planning to work through that whole box?"
"..." Jiang Rong choked on that, his momentary outrage giving way to silence. Then he dipped his head and sank his teeth lightly into my shoulder. "Sister always knows how to dodge a question. Fine. You don't have to answer. Either way, I'm not leaving. Even if I have to cling to you — I'll cling to you for the rest of my life."
He finished that ridiculous declaration and still found the nerve to press a kiss to my lips. One wasn't enough. He went in for another.
And then one thing led to another.
* * *
The first time I met Jiang Rong, it was at the Baima Club.
Among the seven or eight boys and girls with their powdered faces and bare midriffs, he stood out with painful clarity — plain white T-shirt, bare face, not a scrap of makeup. The moment I walked in, my eyes went straight to him.
At the time, he was tucked under the arm of a paunchy middle-aged man, his face drained of color. Too frightened to flinch when the man's hands wandered, he forced a smile anyway, trembling as he refilled the man's glass.
Miserable little thing. Oddly amusing, too.
I gave him one passing glance, then turned to work the room — greeting the pack of businessmen with practiced ease.
"President Qin, fashionably late again — surely a self-imposed penalty drink is in order." The lean man to my right slid an empty glass in my direction, and a sharp-eyed server materialized immediately to pour.
I glanced at the pretty young thing nestled in the lean man's arm, smoothed my hair, and smiled back. "President Liang, you have your own company here tonight — why chase after me? I happen to know that the Guangsha Group still hasn't locked in a partner for that plot of land in the western district. That should be of some interest to you."
President Liang let out a long, satisfied laugh. "Then I'll be counting on President Qin to make the introduction."
"Naturally." I lifted my glass and took the smallest sip, then let the conversation drop, shifting my gaze back across the room.
To Jiang Rong.
He'd noticed. He looked back. Our eyes met dead-on — his dark and clear, neon light dancing in them — and he bit his lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if by accident.
Right. So that's how it is.
This kind of quiet, across-the-room negotiation was practically the room's native language. Money interested in something pretty and clean. Pretty and clean looking for the right mark to latch onto.
This boy in the white T-shirt wanted to hitch his wagon to mine. Bold of him.
* * *
"Still trying to play coy? What happened — lost your nerve?"
I tilted the glass and poured slowly along the line of his collar, watching his white T-shirt darken inch by inch — soaking through, clinging, tracing the curve of his stomach and the flush of color beneath.
The private room was ice-cold with air conditioning. And yet Jiang Rong's face had gone completely red. His whole body was shaking. When he finally managed a response, his voice was barely a thread: "I'm not scared."
He's absolutely terrified. And somehow that made me want to laugh. I reached out and flicked him once on the forehead. "You look like you're about to cry. Relax. Nobody's watching. With nerves like yours, I'm amazed you had the gall to make eyes at me in the first place. Here — dry off."
I grabbed the nearest box of tissues and pushed it into his hands, watching him with mild interest.
"I thought Sister was different from the others."
His voice was soft and clear, like a younger boy's. I found it almost funny. "And now you've seen for yourself. I'm not different. I'm not a good person. My methods are no gentler than President Wang's — the man who had his hands all over you just now."
Jiang Rong clutched the tissue box and shook his head. "No. Sister is a good person."
His shirt was ruined and he was still calling me a good person. I pressed my lips together. "Good how? You're not just flattering me because you think I'm pretty, are you? Saying whatever it takes to make me smile?"
He looked at me steadily. Two seconds of silence. Then, very quietly: "At least Sister asked for an empty room."
"..."
I couldn't help it. I laughed — reached out and ruffled his hair. "That room was for my own convenience, in case I couldn't restrain myself. You little fool. I couldn't care less whether anyone saw you."
I'd had him pulled away from Kang'na's vice president just to watch him squirm. And bringing him to this empty room had been purely self-serving — I hadn't anticipated he'd read it as kindness.
Hopelessly naive. Lucky it was me he'd set his sights on, or he'd have been sold before he knew what hit him.
Jiang Rong's face went redder. He looked down and said nothing, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
So flustered. So perfectly in my wheelhouse. I'd seen enough. I patted his shoulder and stood. "Come on. We're getting a hotel room."
"Not your place?" Jiang Rong's hand shot out, his voice small and tentative.
"Keep dreaming. You want to be kept? Then you'd better prove you're worth keeping."
* * *
That night, Jiang Rong made his case.
His case was terrible.
Absolutely terrible.
But the boy could cry. Lord, could he cry. I said it was fine — he cried. I tried to help — he cried. I went above and beyond — he cried. By the time I said, "You work at a club, the least you could do is watch a tutorial," he completely fell apart. No amount of coaxing could stop him.
Even now, I want to shove him off the bed just thinking about it.
But in the end, I still brought him home.
Then again — that face. That voice. What was I supposed to do.