At five-thirty in the morning, in New York, Jiang Cenglan realized Li Que’s wicked scheme.
His breathing gradually slowed, no longer blending with the sound of rain outside. Watching the dim, bluish morning light seep into the room, Jiang Cenglan realized dawn was coming.
His body was completely drained, but his mind was still buzzing.
He stared blankly at the gauzy curtains swaying in the breeze, at the shadows cast on the wall, and suddenly thought of the first time he’d met Li Que.
The person he had once regarded as a muse had appeared before him in the flesh. That day, Jiang Cenglan hadn’t really looked closely at Li Que’s face. He didn’t dare, nor did he have the face to.
He’d been overwhelmed by guilt and self-reproach.
What he remembered most clearly was that Li Que smelled so good.
That night, he’d also gone to bed very late. Burrowed in his own scent under the covers, he had recalled the fragrance clinging to Li Que’s body.
Those scents had stirred certain immoral associations in him, and Jiang Cenglan hadn’t been able to resist rewarding himself.
He had fantasized about Li Que’s body.
No one would ever know that, on that day, Jiang Cenglan had once harbored such filthy, indecent fantasies about the man he’d wronged, the “rightful spouse” he’d unknowingly helped to betray.
He swore to himself he would never, ever tell Li Que about it.
And now…
He and Li Que had a legitimate, intimate relationship. That beautiful face, that perfect body, Li Que, was his. Desiring him was no longer a shameful or illicit thing.
And Li Que desired him too. Jiang Cenglan was sure of it.
A mature, beautiful man like Li Que clearly knew how to seduce a supposedly “innocent” virgin like him, so Jiang Cenglan turned over and buried his face in the pillow. That hadn’t been a reward just now; it had been punishment, he thought.
God’s punishment for falling in love with someone else’s spouse.
Even though Jiang Cenglan didn’t believe in God. The one who did was Li Que.
And Li Que was bad.
Jiang Cenglan was so tired that his mind had become foggy and his logic nonsensical. He didn’t even remember when he’d fallen asleep, but when he woke again, staring dazedly at the ceiling, he knew he was doomed.
Doomed!
He covered his face, on the verge of tears.
He remembered now why he’d been so restless the night before. Li Que’s photo hadn’t even revealed anything explicit. Not at all. If you only looked at the background, it could even have passed for a moody furniture ad.
The furnishings looked beautifully textured under the dim light…
…And only half of his face was sinfully erotic.
Those slightly parted lips, the flash of violet pressed against his cheek, and, most dangerously, the reflection of light.
There’s reflection only when there’s moisture.
And that moisture…
Jiang Cenglan despaired.
He was starting to realize he wasn’t so against being the top anymore.
And that… That was all Li Que’s wicked plot.
…………….
After that, Jiang Cenglan’s life didn’t become any more relaxed, as he and Li Que had hoped. If anything, it got even busier.
First, finals were approaching. The modeling major he’d booked ahead of time had just gone through a breakup and lost five pounds, so her already slender frame had gone completely out of proportion. Jiang Cenglan had no choice but to re-tailor the finished piece, tightening the waistline. Compared to finding a new model, resizing was the lesser hassle.
Then there was his Senior, who kept urging him for drafts. Her overseas start-up was riding on a wave of free publicity and was progressing unbelievably well. Before Halloween, she invited Jiang Cenglan to dinner, and he brought Li Que along.
The Senior now knew the two were officially a couple.
But still, business was business.
Even though they were friends, Jiang Cenglan couldn’t, out of convenience or affection, neglect the person who had offered him a job when he needed one. She needed his designs ready for production, and Jiang Cenglan absolutely couldn’t use being busy as an excuse to delay.
And then, there was the most important thing: Li Que’s outfit for the Christmas charity gala.
Normally, as the designer, Jiang Cenglan would have to discuss every detail in person with the client. But Li Que had turned that down, saying he wanted a surprise, and telling Jiang Cenglan to take full creative control. And when it was ready, he’d just wear it.
That one statement had sent Jiang Cenglan’s stress level through the roof… and also lit a fire of competitiveness inside him.
As for the design that Zhang Ruien had once plagiarized, Jiang Cenglan had decided to abandon it completely. He spent hours in the library instead, burying himself in art history and literature, searching for new inspiration.
Because of that, his time with Li Que decreased drastically.
Though Li Que still insisted on driving him to and from school every day, Jiang Cenglan no longer had the free hours to go on dinner dates with him. Whenever they did manage to eat together, it depended not only on the schedule of Li Que, the world-famous (but semi-retired) supermodel,
but also on the schedule of an ordinary Chinese art student in the U.S.
Jiang Cenglan claimed he was simply too busy, but also that he was under enormous psychological pressure.
Because Li Que’s wicked scheme was still ongoing.
Only now did Jiang Cenglan finally understand why, back when Li Que had carried that entire box of “toys” out of the Steinway Building, he had smiled in such a knowing way.
Unlike Jiang Cenglan, who could only act coy and beg to be topped, Li Que was taking real, methodical action, as he was quietly but expertly manipulating him into becoming a top.
Every day they met, Li Que behaved like a perfect gentleman, polite, restrained, composed, as if he really were the model of a courteous suitor, but he even reduced their frequency of intimacy!
Jiang Cenglan had counted on his fingers!
And at night (every damn night!), Jiang Cenglan would receive another carefully staged erotic photo.
Half-revealed, never explicit, but just enough to torment him.
Jiang Cenglan hated to admit it, but he was addicted.
Whenever the photo came, he couldn’t bear to delete it, and on nights when he finished work early, he often stayed up late, pretending to be busy, when in truth he was waiting for Li Que’s photo.
At first, Jiang Cenglan had even hoped Li Que might initiate a little phone play. But no matter how many hints he dropped, Li Que never responded.
Only later did he realize the photos were scheduled for automatic delivery, because of course, Li Que, ever the disciplined supermodel, went to bed early every night.
So he was purely doing it to torture him!
Jiang Cenglan couldn’t control himself; he was like Pavlov’s cat in a Tom and Jerry cartoon, completely trained by Li Que.
So he called Pei Zi to vent.
“It’s Pavlov’s dog,” Pei Zi corrected him.
“I’m more of a cat person,” Jiang Cenglan replied. “So what am I supposed to do?! I can’t take it anymore! My soul’s going to lose its purity! I’m gonna end up becoming the top!!!”
“You’re loud,” Pei Zi said, holding the phone away from his ear. When Jiang Cenglan finally finished screaming, he added dryly, “Honestly, I still can’t believe Richard’s actually a bottom.”
“Right, right! He’s such a top, isn’t he?!” Jiang Cenglan said, desperate for agreement.
Pei Zi was quiet for a moment, then said, “Alright… but just so you know, the outcome might not be what you want, so don’t blame me later.”
……………..
By mid-October, New York had officially entered winter.
Compared to summer, autumn and winter were the true seasons of fashion for the Fifth Avenue elite. Around this time of year, the best-selling items weren’t the bright sundresses of summer but MaxMara’s signature 101801 cashmere coat and Burberry’s classic trench.
Autumn also happened to be Jiang Cenglan’s favorite season. He loved the moderate weight of fall clothing, fabrics that wrapped around the body just enough that you’d have to lean close to feel another’s warmth through the layers.
And Li Que clearly understood what he meant.
“So what you’re saying is, sexy camisole underneath, conservative coat on top? Jiang Cenglan, you’re such a pervert.”
“…”
“Sometimes I feel like your Chinese is better than mine.”
Li Que only smiled, saying nothing.
As soon as the weather cooled, Li Que lost his enthusiasm for driving convertibles, even though every car he owned, each an absolute showstopper, would draw a crowd the moment he parked. To accommodate Jiang Cenglan, he bought a discreet German sedan. It meant fewer people snapping photos of them in public.
And just like that, it was already Thanksgiving Day. Classes were out, though Jiang Cenglan didn’t exactly have a break since he’d spent the day helping his Senior with work, and Li Que was scheduled to pick him up later that afternoon.
Thanksgiving was a major holiday across America, really, the entire Western world1. Families gathered, and Li Que’s mother, cousin, and uncle had all called to invite him home to Toulouse for the holiday.
But Li Que told them he had to stay in New York to keep a certain “young friend” company; otherwise, that person would most likely work straight through the holiday and forget to eat any turkey. He said that over Bluetooth, while driving Jiang Cenglan back to Steinway Tower, but since the conversation was in French, Jiang Cenglan couldn’t understand a word, not even the topic.
Curious, he asked about it. Li Que didn’t seem to mind. After all, he hadn’t tried to hide the call.
“It was my mother,” Li Que explained. “She wanted me to bring you to Toulouse for Thanksgiving. But I told her I’m still pursuing you; if I ask too soon, you might refuse.”
Jiang Cenglan knew he was teasing, but he couldn’t stop the small swell of happiness in his chest. He said, pretending to be calm, “Got it.”
Li Que smiled. “Good.”
They made plans to spend Thanksgiving together. When Li Que arrived at the studio to pick him up, he brought a bouquet of roses, blue on the outside, pink in the middle.
Jiang Cenglan was ecstatic. He cradled them all the way to the restaurant, set them on the table, and took dozens of pictures with his phone.
Unfortunately, he forgot the flowers when they left, and Li Que, who couldn’t care less about their price, didn’t remind him.
It wasn’t until days later that Jiang Cenglan discovered they were Ecuadorian-dyed roses called Marshmallow, worth thirty thousand U.S. dollars a bouquet. He was so distraught that he skipped dinner that night.
But that was later.
On Thanksgiving night, Jiang Cenglan said he had extra work to finish, so, as usual, Li Que only dropped him off downstairs and then drove back to Long Island.
But Jiang Cenglan didn’t go up right away.
He waited in the lobby until he saw the car pull away, then left Steinway Tower and walked two blocks to a laundromat.
The tuxedo was ready.
He’d brought the prototype version of Li Que’s custom piece there for dry cleaning and pressing.
As a textbook-trained designer, Jiang Cenglan believed in the importance of prototypes: garments made from similar fabric to the final piece, used to test and perfect every detail. The prototype fabric was expensive and not washable, but it was nearly indistinguishable from the real thing.
When he picked it up, the chalk markings were gone, and the slight shrinkage from the dry-cleaning made it fit his own frame perfectly.
After a long, scented oil bath, complete with exfoliating, shaving, and carefully tending to every inch, Jiang Cenglan styled his hair, spritzed on cologne, and slipped into the tuxedo.
It had been designed for a world-class supermodel, yet even on him, with his delicate, striking features, the effect was still unexpectedly stunning.
He’d never dressed up for himself like that before. When he looked in the mirror, even he had to admit he looked good, even dangerously so. Tonight, he thought, he had this in the bag.
Li Que, being a pure bottom, didn’t have the kind of dominant streak that craved to conquer weaker men. His taste ran more toward appreciation, like a refined woman’s.
And Jiang Cenglan was, conveniently, a very pretty boy.
So he stood before the full-length mirror and used the tips and tricks Pei Zi had taught him about “suggestive” video framing. He recorded several clips, but after weeks of practice, his composition and camera sense were sharp; with a quick edit using the app’s templates, a provocative little video was born.
He admired it for a moment, then sent it to Li Que.
[Waiting for the wind to blow]: [Click to download video]
[Waiting for the wind to blow]: “You around? Any top energy tonight?”
Two minutes later, Li Que replied.
[Toy Story]: “?”
[Toy Story]: “Wait. Four or five minutes.”
Exactly five minutes later, he arrived. He even let himself in with the passcode.
Jiang Cenglan was leaning against the liquor cabinet, collar wide open, a bottle of red already breathing on the table beside him… not for himself, but for Li Que.
It was an unmistakably open invitation.
Li Que had read him right from the start: Jiang Cenglan was an ardent, expressive young man who loved boldly.
And Li Que never turned down an invitation.
He didn’t even bother changing his shoes as he crossed the room in his expensive red-soled dress shoes, slow and deliberate. And when Jiang Cenglan saw he hadn’t brought that suitcase, he knew tonight was the real deal.
So he reached out, wrapped his arms around Li Que’s neck, and kissed him.
The kiss was clumsy, hungry, filled with the kind of youthful passion that sparked Li Que’s desire instantly.
They moved from the cabinet to the couch; Li Que pressed Jiang Cenglan down against the suede upholstery, one hand firm against his abdomen, keeping him still.
Jiang Cenglan lifted his knees, brushing teasingly along the seam of Li Que’s trousers, sharp and deliberate, matching the man’s cool, dominant poise.
“Under the coffee table…” he whispered.
He wanted to say that he’d bought massage oil, better for beginners, after all. Surely Li Que would use it. Some things were instinctive for men.
But then he saw the man smile. A slow, knowing curve of the lips.
Li Que took off his watch, set it on the couch back, and reached into his pocket, producing a small square packet.
Jiang Cenglan blinked. He didn’t know what it was, not until Li Que tore it open along the serrated edge.
Inside was a small rubber piece, sized not for him, but for Li Que.
It slid perfectly over the man’s finger.
“There’s no top,” Li Que said softly.
Jiang Cenglan’s breath quickened, every nerve burning alive at the sight of that calm, devastatingly sexy expression.
“Next,” Li Que murmured, voice low and sure, “I’m going to finger you with this.”
He leaned closer.
“Are you ready, Jiang Cenglan?”
- Yeah, not really :)). I’m European, so cute, but nope, it’s just America. ↩︎
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