Chapter 21: Dionysus (1)

Wen Mingwei’s car is a custom-made compact sedan. Setting aside its specialized bulletproof and blast-resistant features, the interior space is actually quite small, and with its low roof, it is difficult for Tan Zhao to stretch out comfortably given his height.

But there is no time to worry about such things now. The narrow, dim space causes the atmosphere to heat up. Wen Mingwei is pressed heavily beneath him, his shoulders unable to move an inch. As their lips meet, the air around them seems to still for a heartbeat, followed by a deep kiss.

It lacks technique, but it is full of intensity.

Tan Zhao kisses him with a fiery temper, as if he wants to bite Wen Mingwei to death to punish him for the offense of making him angry.

And bite he does. Before the sharp pain in his lips has even subsided, Wen Mingwei finds his jaw gripped and is forced to tilt his head back. His soft, long hair trembles in rhythm with his breathing, while looming above him like a shadow is Tan Zhao’s cold, unforgiving face.

"Apologize." In the brief space between breaths, Tan Zhao spits out the word with displeasure. Wen Mingwei lets out a soft "mm," but before he can speak, his lips are sealed again.

Logically, in any field, an unskilled, inexperienced player would feel insecure, but the young master feels nothing of the sort. He doesn't believe he is kissing poorly; he domineeringly grips the back of Wen Mingwei’s neck, his posture perfectly struck, looking for all the world like a veteran of love.

Wen Mingwei had actually intended to break things off with him earlier, but his mind, currently under the influence of medication, is not entirely clear, and his resolve is not firm. His attitude toward Tan Zhao carries a hint of testing—if Tan Zhao gets angry and leaves, then so be it; if he stays, they can figure it out later.

Tan Zhao is also testing the waters, and his expression softens only when Wen Mingwei raises his arms to wrap them around his waist.

"Why are you shaking?"

Tan Zhao pulls away from Wen Mingwei’s lips for a moment, noticing that the latter seems completely drained of strength. The fingers resting on his back are trembling slightly, and he cannot even straighten his waist, looking for all the world like his legs have turned to jelly from the kiss.

"It can't be that bad, can it?" He tightens his grip, lowering his voice. "Are you nervous? Or... are you excited?"

"..." Whether it was nervousness or excitement, asking that really ruins the mood.

Unfortunately, the drug is at its peak; Wen Mingwei’s legs are truly weak, his eyelids heavy, and even the gaze cast from beneath his lashes lacks its usual sharpness, appearing instead soft and lingering.

Tan Zhao’s anger subsides slightly, and he snorts coldly: "Don't think you can just muddle through this. First, explain to me what you were actually doing these past few days, and then apologize."

Wen Mingwei says nothing, but his other hand also reaches out to embrace his waist, slipping slightly due to his lack of strength. His body leans into Tan Zhao’s chest, and their lips, mere inches apart, meet once more in another kiss.

Though still displeased, Tan Zhao does not refuse. He aggressively seizes the initiative, and through the practice of just moments ago, he finally learns a bit of technique, finding a method other than biting: sucking and grinding with force.

He still harbors anger, and he is not gentle in the slightest. He invades Wen Mingwei’s mouth like an aggressor, intuitively subduing that soft tongue, allowing no resistance or retreat.

Beyond reciprocating, there is nothing Wen Mingwei can do. He opens his half-closed eyes to meet Tan Zhao’s fixated gaze.

Despite his lack of polish, Tan Zhao is no boy; he is a fully matured man.

Wen Mingwei has a rare, instinctive feeling of being hunted. The moment his focus drifts, his jaw is gripped again, and he is kissed deeper and harder as a punishment. All the oxygen is stolen away, his breathing grows ragged, and a thin film of sweat appears on the bridge of his nose.

And that is not all—the previous kisses were merely the overture.

Tortured by the medication, which leaves him weak and aching in his limbs, the pleasure of the deep kiss creates a complex and peculiar sensation that physically arouses him, gradually sweeping away the heavy, ash-like emotions that had been weighing on his mind.

He exhales softly, a long breath that is quickly cut short. Caught in the intensity of the other's kiss, he cannot help but call out: "Tan Zhao..."

The tone, filled with longing, is more effective than any explanation or apology.

Tan Zhao kisses him even more fiercely, as if he wants to swallow him whole. His eyes remain fixed on him, his pupils burning with a deep, dark desire—an animalistic instinct that no amount of pretense, pure or open, can suppress.

"Tan Zhao..." Wen Mingwei calls out again.

His long hair is already in disarray, the strands clinging to his damp temples as if soaked in water, his normally pale face flushed with a drunken, intoxicated glow. The pain brought by the medicine is intense, but so is the pleasure Tan Zhao provides; he cannot distinguish which one he prefers, he only wants more.

"Don't call my name." Tan Zhao bites him, unable to help himself. "Do you like it that much?"

"...Mm."

"Then why did you drive me away earlier?"

"That’s not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"..."

Wen Mingwei cannot answer. He is no longer leaning against the back seat, but has been pressed obliquely into Tan Zhao’s arms. If the angle were any sharper, he would be lying down, shifting into an even more intimate position.

Tan Zhao suddenly says, "One minute left."

"...Happy birthday." Wen Mingwei finally relents, adding, "Actually, I have a gift prepared."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

"Wait until later."

Wen Mingwei, still wanting more, kisses Tan Zhao again. "Let's continue first."

"..." The young master hadn't blushed even after such an intense session earlier, but for some reason, he cannot handle this sentence. Even in the dim light of the car, he cannot hide his bright red ears.

But some people are inclined to bluster the more embarrassed they get. Tan Zhao stiffens his expression, coldly gripping the lower half of Wen Mingwei’s face and pinning him back against the seat with the air of a domineering CEO, as if he weren't particularly interested and were only deigning to kiss him out of the goodness of his heart.

Wen Mingwei laughs as he is kissed. The gloom of the night is swept away, and he closes his eyes, pleasantly exhausted, enjoying this slow-paced kiss.

"Don't you dare fall asleep," Tan Zhao mutters between their lips. "I haven't let go of my anger yet. Where is your apology?"

Wen Mingwei complies readily: "I'm sorry."

"Is that all?"

"I won't stop replying to your messages again," Wen Mingwei says. "I did go to a funeral. The time constraint was one thing, but mostly, I just wasn't in the right frame of mind."

"So you ignored me just because you were in a bad mood?"

"I thought you—" Wen Mingwei pauses, "would have plenty of people to keep you company, and wouldn't care that much about me."

"...Here we go again."

Tan Zhao is unhappy to hear this, but he doesn't want to explain the first half, nor does he want to refute the second. He glares awkwardly at Wen Mingwei, using yet another kiss to demand his silence.

"Fine, I'll count that as an apology."

After kissing for a long while, Tan Zhao asks, "Whose funeral was it?"

"..."

Wen Mingwei looks down. "A friend."

"A friend your age?" Tan Zhao presses his temple, stroking it as if to comfort him. "So young... it’s understandable that it would affect your mood. But you have your own life to live. Be sad for a moment, but don't let others affect you too much."

"..."

Such considerate words hardly sound like something the young master would say. He realizes his own lack of practice at offering comfort and feels a bit awkward. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes," Wen Mingwei replies in a low voice.

Tan Zhao presses him: "And the gift?"

"It's at home. Let's go inside and see."

Wen Mingwei starts to stand up as he speaks, but the effects of the drug have not yet worn off, and he cannot rise. Under Tan Zhao’s skeptical gaze, he lets out a quiet sigh. "I can't move."

He leans against the other’s shoulder without a hint of shame. "You kissed me too hard just now; my legs are weak."

Tan Zhao: "..."

Though he had suspected as much, hearing him admit it is a different matter entirely.

Tan Zhao isn't entirely convinced, suspecting he is acting spoiled on purpose. But things have reached this point, and letting him act spoiled is no big deal.

"Fine." The young master exits the car with a flourish, leans in from the outside, and scoops Wen Mingwei up into his arms.

It is a standard bridal carry.

Tan Zhao, who was once proficient in everything from street racing and skiing to ball games, has far more physical stamina than Wen Mingwei, a delicate young master who rarely steps out of the house or sees the sun. Carrying him is effortless, and he doesn't even break a sweat walking from the parking spot to the entrance of the villa.

Wen Mingwei, for his part, is perfectly content. He adjusts his position in Tan Zhao’s arms, pulls his trapped long hair free, and even lets out a yawn. If the distance were not so short, he might very well have fallen asleep against Tan Zhao.

It is past midnight. A hazy, crescent moon hangs in the sky, and the garden is heavy with night dew. Wen Mingwei catches a whiff of the damp fragrance, suddenly tugs on the tie at Tan Zhao’s chest, and asks, "What are we now?"

Tan Zhao’s footsteps falter. In the three seconds of silence that follow, he tries to invent a reason why "ordinary friends can also kiss," but fails, so he coolly retorts, "What do you think?"

Wen Mingwei laughs: "Is it what I’m thinking?"

"And what are you thinking?"

"Exactly what you’re thinking right now."

"..."

"Is this tongue-twister supposed to be funny?"

Tan Zhao finally reaches the front door. Under the astonished gaze of the butler and Secretary Gu, he carries Wen Mingwei up the steps and into the house, his expression unchanging and his demeanor steady. "Wen Mingwei."

"Yes?"

"I’ll reluctantly agree to your pursuit. I’ll be your boyfriend."