Shanghai morning light was a grey blade through the grimy slit of the window. Not dawn – mid-afternoon. Zhou Tian woke not rested, but like something coiled spring-tight. The hollow space Li Na and Cheng had carved into his chest wasn't gone, but overnight, it had filled with concrete. Hard. Heavy. Useful.
He skipped breakfast. Hunger was a more honest companion than nostalgia. He walked Nanjing Road, the relentless pulse of luxury a familiar drumbeat against the unfamiliar pavement. Sunlight glared off chrome and polished windows, reflecting hordes of polished people wearing invisible price tags. He needed a bite, but the sterile perfection of international chains felt suffocating. He veered into a side alley, drawn by the pungent, greasy aroma of shengjianbao – pan-fried pork buns.
The tiny stall was crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, steam billowing, voices loud. As he waited, jostled by the lunchtime crush, he felt a presence. Not threatening. Interested. He turned his head slowly.
A woman, late-20s, stood just behind him holding her own takeaway box. Tall, willowy model height in worn jeans and a fitted, impossibly thin grey cashmere sweater that clung to high, full breasts. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, sharpening refined cheekbones and intelligent eyes the color of bitter coffee. She didn't smile, just held his gaze with a frank, unnerving appraisal that mirrored his own perpetual scan. Her necklace – a simple silver chain with a single, perfect black pearl nestled against the creamy skin of her décolletage – was probably worth more than the stall owner made in a month. An heiress slumming? A predator recognizing kin?
"You look," she said, her voice cool and precise, cutting through the din, "like you're considering eating that box and the plastic."
Zhou glanced at the flimsy container steaming in his hand. "Is there a better option?" Not flirting. Probing.
"The Park Shangri-La does Peking Duck worth crying over," she stated, peeling the lid off her own box. The scent of rich filling mingled with her faint perfume – oud wood and icy orange blossom. "But that requires sitting down. With company."
He took one of his buns, bit in. Hot, fatty juice scalded his tongue. He didn't flinch. "Company costs."
Her laugh was a short, sharp exhale. "Everything does." She tilted her head. "You're not from here. Walk with me?" A command disguised as a question.
They ate as they walked, silent except for the crush of the crowd and the messy sounds of eating. She led, not towards the glittering Bund, but deeper into a labyrinth of smaller streets where colonial facades sagged above discount electronics shops. The concrete pores of the city. Her effortless navigation spoke of intimate knowledge.
At the nondescript entrance of the Jade Orchid, she stopped. Raised an eyebrow. "Forgettable. Wise choice."
"My needs are temporary," Zhou said, unlocking the grubby inner door.
"All needs are temporary," she countered, following him inside without invitation. The lobby clerk blinked dumbly at them. Zhou ignored him. She climbed the narrow stairs behind him, her presence filling the cheap corridor.
Room 307 felt smaller, shabbier with her expensive scent and quiet magnetism inside it. She surveyed it with calm detachment, lingering on the cracked ceiling stain. "Building character. Literally." She tossed her empty food box onto the rickety writing desk. Then, she turned. All business. "Do you want me?" No coyness. Not asking if he did, stating a transaction.
"Yes," Zhou replied, equally flat. The concrete in his core shifted, settling. Use what's offered.
She peeled the grey sweater over her head. No bra. Her breasts were high, fuller than he'd guessed, weighted beautifully, impossibly firm against her slender frame, tipped with large, dusky-rose areolas, the nipples already tight pebbles under his gaze. She unhooked her jeans, stepping out of them to reveal simple white silk panties, dampening visibly at the center. Confidence radiated off her like heat.
He moved then. Closing the gap, his hand not grabbing, but claiming, fingers spreading possessively on the soft, warm skin of her belly, sliding upwards. Her breath hitched in her throat, the only sign. He lowered his head, his tongue tracing the elegant line of her clavicle before diving between her breasts. The scent of oud and warm, supple skin filled his senses. He took one heavy globe in his mouth, hard flesh yielding against his tongue, suckling deeply, lavishing the stiff nipple with relentless suction and flicking pressure. She gasped, a short, sharp sound, her fingers tangling in his damp hair, pressing him closer, guiding him to her other breast with silent urgency. He obliged, teeth scraping lightly, dragging a low moan from her. Her skin tasted like potential. Power. Oblivion.
He dropped smoothly to his knees. One hand slid her panties down, revealing trimmed dark curls glistening. The other hooked under her thigh, lifting her leg onto the sagging bed frame. He didn't hesitate. His tongue parted her folds, flat and demanding. Her taste burst across his senses—musky, sharp, complex. She hissed, her fingers tightening convulsively in his hair. He explored relentlessly, methodically, ignoring the sensitive bud at first, tormenting her inner lips, building pressure until her thighs trembled. Only then did he zero in on her clit, circling it with slow, maddening precision before sucking it firmly between his lips.
She arched off the bed frame, choking on a cry. "Fuck! Keep doing it like that…"
He pushed her back against the wall for leverage, tilting her hips. "Up," he growled against slick skin. Understanding, she lifted her other leg gingerly onto the cheap plywood nightstand – a graceless 69 in the cramped, peeling room. Her hands fumbled with his belt, jerking it free, yanking down his pants. His thick cock sprang free, rigid against her face. She wasted no time. Her mouth closed over the swollen head, hot and wet, taking him deep with startling ease, rubbing her slick center hard across his lips and nose in the same demanding rhythm.
It was a brutal counterpoint: her clever mouth working him down his length, swallowing relentlessly, her moans vibrating through him, while he devoured her, tasting salt and her escalating climax. He hooked his arms under her thighs, fingers digging into firm ass, opening her wider as he pushed deeper with his tongue, circling her clit faster, matching the pace of her sucking. Her legs buckled, her thighs shaking violently around his head. Her cry was muffled by his cock but fierce, vibrating through his pelvis as she came hard against his face, slickness coating his chin. He let her pulse through it, relentless with his mouth until she shuddered, collapsing against the wall with a whimper.
He surged up then, wet mouth glistening, tearing the last shred of her panties away. He lifted her – surprisingly strong for her frame – and tossed her onto the thin mattress. It sagged violently. She grinned up at him, eyes glazed but fierce, her painted nails scraping his abdomen as he grabbed her hips.
"Get inside. Now."
No preamble. He aligned himself, the broad, flushed head slick with her wetness and his pre-come. Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of apprehension swallowed by heat. He thrust. Hard. Deep. Sheathing himself in molten heat in one brutal move that punched the air from her lungs. "Christ!" she gasped, head snapping back.
He didn't relent. Found a punishing rhythm instantly, each thrust a claim staked in the yielding heat of her. Her back arched off the bed, legs hooking around his hips, pulling him impossibly deeper. Her eyes locked on his, unblinking, challenging. He met the challenge, pistoning harder, the slap of flesh echoing hollowly in the cheap room, punctuated by her ragged gasps and the faint groan of protesting bedsprings. His hands gripped her hips like vices, controlling the angle, the depth. He watched a flush bloom from her neck down to her heaving breasts. He took one nipple back between thumb and forefinger, pinching hard. She cried out, her inner muscles grasping him like a fist.
"Come again," he commanded, gritting his teeth against the tightening coil in his own groin. He shifted, driving the thick root of himself relentlessly against her front wall. She shattered instantly, nails raking down his back, back arching off the bed, a raw scream torn from her throat as her body milked him rhythmically. Only then, with her tremors barely subsiding, did he allow himself to chase his own release, slamming home and grinding deep as the wave broke, jerking his hips sharply as he emptied himself deep inside her with a harsh, guttural groan that held no tenderness, only raw consumption.
Collapsed breaths were the only sound. Her leg slid off his hip. The cheap mattress ticking was soaked beneath them. She lay splayed, breathing heavily, high breasts flushed and heaving, her eyes closed. Zhou rolled off, uncaring, lying on his back on the clammy sheet. The concrete in his chest remained. Solid. Impenetrable. The peak hadn't dissolved it; it had merely shouldered around it. The satisfaction was blunt, physical. A need met. A resource consumed.
Her voice, thick and rasping, broke the silence. "What hotel is this?" Eyeing the stained ceiling.
"The Jade Orchid," he replied, staring at the same stain.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, looked down at him. Dark eyes swept his face, his sweat-sheened chest. That calm observation back. Then, she leaned down, not for a kiss, but to catch a bead of sweat from his collarbone with her tongue. A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Forgettable taste. Perfect."
She rose in a single fluid motion – a hidden dancer's grace. Pulled on her clothes with swift efficiency, not bothering with the ruined panties. She glanced at the damp patch on the bed. At him. "Make a name that doesn't belong in places like this, Zhou Tian." She knew his name. He hadn't given it.
She left without another word. No number. No name offered by her. Just the faint scent of oud, hot skin, and the lingering, heady musk of sex in the ruin of Room 307. The door clicked shut.
Zhou lay still. The ghost of her touch lingered. The ache of being emptied out felt good. A zero point. A blank slate scraped clean. He rolled off the damp spot onto the cool side of the mattress.
Nothing else matters, he thought again. He closed his eyes. The ghost of her breasts swelling into his mouth, the tight clutch of her around his cock, her command to 'make a name'… they were echoes in the void. Fuel, not anchors. At 8 PM, The Broken Mast would see what kind of fire he planned to light.
The afternoon sun catching dust motes through the slit window was already fading. Night crawled closer. The predator rose, prowling the confines of the room, waiting for its hunting hour.