Chapter 4: Five-Minute Fling
The air in the dressing room corridor was still, thick with the scent of reheated noodles and anticipation. Wang Churan walked back from makeup, her script a useless weight in her hand. Every line was blurred. All she could see was the look in Yang Yang’s eyes when she’d placed her foot beside him—a look that had stripped her bare.
He was leaning against the wall next to her dressing room door, scrolling on his phone. He glanced up as she approached. No smile. Just a slow, deliberate assessment that traveled from her eyes to her lips, down her neck, over the simple cotton shirt and jeans she wore between scenes.
“Congee good?” he asked, his voice casual.
“It was fine.” She fumbled with the key.
His hand shot out, covering hers on the doorknob. The touch was electric, final. “We need to run the lines for the next scene,” he said, but his tone was all gravel, a low vibration she felt in her ribs.
“We don’t have lines. It’s the silent morning-after scene.”
“Exactly.” He pushed the door open, guiding her inside with a pressure that brooked no argument. The main room was cluttered with her things—clothes, scripts, a wilting bouquet from a fan. He didn’t stop there. He walked her straight through, past the vanity, to the small, utilitarian bathroom attached. He kicked the door shut behind them with his heel.
The click of the lock was deafening.
The space was brutally small. White tiles, a slightly rust-stained sink, a mirror fogged at the edges. A single, flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a sickly, unforgiving glow. It smelled of cheap soap and her perfume, a floral note now turned cloying.
He crowded her against the sink, the porcelain edge digging into the small of her back. His body was a wall of heat, all the playful charm incinerated, leaving only a stark, hungry intent.
“Yang Yang—”
He cut her off with his mouth. This wasn’t the rooftop kiss, all wind and wonder. This was conquest. His lips were demanding, his tongue pushing past hers with a possessiveness that made her knees buckle. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to deepen the angle. The other slid down her side, rough and impatient.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. “You gave me the answer,” he muttered, his teeth scraping down the column of her throat. “Now you get the question.”
His mouth found the junction of her neck and shoulder and bit down. Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make her cry out, a sharp, shocked sound that echoed off the tiles. The pain was a bright, clarifying spark that instantly melted into a throbbing heat. He soothed the spot with his tongue, then bit again, lower, where her collarbone met her shirt.
His hand came up and palmed her breast over her shirt, his thumb finding her nipple and grinding against it in a rough, circular motion. She gasped, arching into the touch despite herself. The thin cotton was no barrier; she could feel every ridge of his fingerprint.
“Fuck, Churan,” he breathed against her skin, his voice thick. “You’ve been driving me insane for weeks.”
He yanked at the buttons of her shirt. One popped off and pinged against the tile floor. He didn’t seem to notice or care. He pushed the fabric aside, shoved the cup of her bra down. Her breast spilled into his hand, and he groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound. He squeezed, his grip almost painful, then bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth.
The sensation was blinding. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue lashing, his teeth providing just the right edge of threat. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, not to push him away but to hold him there, her fingers fisting in the dark strands. He sucked hard, claiming her, marking her. The contrast of the harsh light, the cold sink at her back, and the searing heat of his mouth was overwhelming.
His free hand went to the button of her jeans. He got it open in one swift move, the zipper a loud rasp in the quiet room. He shoved his hand down past the waistband of her jeans, past the lace of her panties. His fingers were relentless, sliding through her folds, finding her soaked and swollen.
“Jesus,” he hissed, his voice a mix of triumph and agony. “Look at you. Drenched. And we haven’t even started.”
He pushed two fingers into her without preamble, a deep, stretching invasion that stole the air from her lungs. Her head fell back against the mirror with a thud. He worked his fingers in and out, a crude, efficient rhythm, his thumb circling her clit with a pressure that was just shy of too much.
“Is this what you wanted when you looked at me across the set?” he growled, his mouth still on her breast, his words muffled against her skin. “When you whimpered under the sheets? You wanted me to fuck you like this? In some filthy bathroom?”
She couldn’t speak. She could only moan, her hips rocking against his hand, chasing the coiling tension his fingers were building. The world had narrowed to the smell of him, the taste of his skin where her mouth found his shoulder, the relentless, delicious friction inside her.
“Tell me,” he demanded, curling his fingers, hitting a spot that made her see white. “Say it.”
“Yes,” she gasped, the word torn from her. “God, yes, just… don’t stop.”
He added a third finger, stretching her fuller, the burn a perfect counterpoint to the pleasure. She was panting, close, so close, the orgasm building like a wave about to crash—
A sharp, rapid knocking rattled the dressing room door. They both froze.
“Churan? Yang Yang? You guys in there?” It was the assistant director, her voice tinny through the wood. “Places in five! We’re blocking the hallway scene!”
Reality flooded back in, cold and brutal. The buzzing light. The cold tiles. Her shirt hanging open, her breast wet from his mouth. His hand still buried inside her.
Yang Yang’s eyes met hers in the mirror. They were black with frustration, with a wild, thwarted hunger. He slowly withdrew his fingers. The sound was obscenely wet in the sudden silence. He brought them to his mouth, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean.
“Fuck,” he whispered, a low, furious curse.
He stepped back, adjusting himself with a rough, jerky movement. Wang Churan sagged against the sink, her legs trembling, a fierce, aching emptiness where his hand had been. She was throbbing, wet, completely undone. The promise of release hung in the air, agonizingly unfulfilled.
He turned on the tap, splashed water on his face. He didn’t look at her. “Fix yourself,” he said, his voice flat.
She fumbled with her bra, her shirt, her jeans. Her fingers were shaking too badly to button the shirt properly; she just held it closed. In the mirror, she saw a stranger—lips swollen, hair a mess, a vivid red mark blooming on her neck. A mark the makeup artist would have to conceal.
Yang Yang unlocked the door. He paused, his hand on the knob. He looked back at her, and the mask was gone again. What was left was just as dangerous, but simpler. Pure, undiluted want.
“This isn’t over,” he said. It wasn’t a tease. It was a vow.
He left, closing the inner door softly behind him. She heard him greet the AD in the corridor, his voice easy, charming, perfectly normal.
Wang Churan stared at her ruined reflection. Her body hummed with unmet need, a live wire of frustration. But beneath the fury at the interruption, beneath the humiliation, a darker, more thrilling current surged. He was right. It wasn’t over. It had only just begun. And the next time, she wouldn't be the one left trembling against the sink. She would be the one making him beg.