It was a proven fact: don't mess with Zhou Mochen.
Whether it was the thirty-five-year-old version or the twenty-five-year-old one, he was not to be trifled with.
Especially in bed.
Xu Su propped up her aching lower back and glanced at the man next to her, now impeccably dressed and back to his usual composed self. "Who asked you to be so rough?" she complained. "I told you to be gentler."
"Rough?"
Zhou Mochen zipped up her dress, then wrapped his arms around her from behind, holding her close with his chest against her back. Listening to her sweet complaints, he lowered his gaze and kissed the side of her neck, whispering, "There's rougher, but I could never bring myself to use it on you."
'I really want to tell the woman in my arms that if I had to choose a way for us to die, it would be in bed, locked in an intimate embrace that no one could ever pull apart.'
Even without him saying it, Xu Su knew the man behind her was no saint.
