Xi Corporation's Headquarters, 16:20;
In the dim stillness of the Childcare Floor's storeroom—the hidden corner of the empire he ruled as his Crown—Xi Yuan refused to let go of her. His arm remained firmly around Rong Xinghe's waist, anchoring her against him as his lips traced reverent paths along the curve of her neck.
Between kisses, he breathed promises, whispered vows she wished to hear, while his fingertips sketched languid circles at the small of her back—helpless, shameless, consumed by the permission her silence offered him.
Her two simple, tender requests—so guileless, so disarmingly compassionate—had shattered every restraint he thought he possessed, leaving him incapable of choosing inaction when every instinct screamed to touch, to reassure, to claim.
And for him, love had never been words alone. Touch was his language, his truest confession.
