Love for One Night

Ch 1: The Night I Can't Forget (9)

"Sandra, honestly, what does... that feel like? Is it really that great?" April was leaning on the armrest, staring at the screen filled with scenes of swaying, bare flesh.

Sandra pretended not to see or hear anything, focusing intently on slicing potatoes in the open kitchen.

April glanced at Sandra, who was diligently working, then pushed up her glasses and turned back to her so-called "educational video."

She thought to herself, What's the point of asking her roommate? A woman who tried to give her virginity to her boyfriend on her 20th birthday but caught him cheating instead—how could she be so thoughtless as to rub salt in her wounds? Just shut up. Shut up.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sandra noticed April closing the video. She let out a sigh of relief. Lowering her head, she saw potato slices in the sink and potato peels in the dish. That breath nearly got stuck in her throat. She pressed the garbage disposal button, and listened as the potato slices were ground to bits and washed away.

Some things are like spilled water—even if it's frozen into ice—it can never be fully reclaimed. Another month passed. Autumn winds grew chilly, yellow leaves fell, and some things should have long returned to dust and ashes, completely forgotten. Yet her recently love-struck, scatterbrained roommate stirred up a smoky haze that was hard to ignore.

Focus. Focus on slicing the potatoes. Otherwise, there wouldn't be anything to eat, Sandra told herself.

Ten minutes later, Sandra stared at the pot bubbling with thick, white foam, realizing she'd poured dish soap and water into the pot without washing it out first and then put it on the stove.

Forget it. If you're not in the mood to cook, just don't. Better not risk setting the place on fire or poisoning yourself with gas—no point wasting food either, especially when there are still people starving in this world.

Sandra poured herself a glass of milk, returned to her room, and closed the door.

Lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind kept replaying April's questions: What does it feel like? Is it really that great?

It's hard to say. Even though it was her first time, Sandra knew that man was experienced—methodical and unhurried, taking step after step patiently as if advancing on a battlefield. Like water brought to a slow boil, it was passionate yet not rushed. She didn't want to appear too naive, but she was so nervous that she could barely remember what she had done.

Perhaps it wasn't that she couldn't remember—it was that she didn't dare to think about it. Even the faintest flashes of memory were enough to make her face burn and her heart race, almost to the point of fainting.

She thought she was drunk, yet she could still hear his breathing, his occasional low growls. She hadn't known that men would moan during sex—primal, beast-like growls that expressed his pleasure and struck a chord deep in her own instincts. She could still catch the faint scent of him—young, male, mingled with a subtle cologne.

Was it a good smell? That's not a good way to judge him. He wasn't a flower, after all. Even if he were, he'd be a carnivorous one, enveloping her entirely in his presence. It was the scent of possession. Possession and being possessed are primal instincts. In nature, only the strongest male can make the female submit. Women crave being conquered. Even someone as strong-willed as her, in her most vulnerable moments, still longed for a sturdy shoulder to lean on.

Sandra wouldn't admit she was seeking revenge against the man who had hurt her. Using self-destruction to retaliate against someone who didn't care about her was blind and foolish. She just desperately needed something to cling to. That longing was like a black hole, pulling her in.

From the moment she first saw him, she couldn't ignore the allure he radiated. This wasn't like her—not at all. Handsome men usually made her feel unsafe, so she kept her distance. But she couldn't avoid him. Was it his measured attentiveness or her own emptiness after losing her support that quickly dismantled her defenses? She might never figure out the chemical reaction that took place in her body at that instant.

At least he was a considerate lover—not the kind of man who rushed for his own satisfaction without regard for her feelings. He seemed to be particularly gentle, perhaps because he knew it was her first time. For a woman, aside from mutual affection, there's little more one could ask for in this regard. So, she didn't regret it.

In his arms, she felt a fleeting sense of security. Beyond the support of his broad shoulders, the whole world seemed distant. Under his wings, it felt as if there was nothing to worry about, nothing worth worrying about. It was a feeling one could easily become addicted to. A captivating sense of security, yet it was enveloped in an aura of danger.