Love for One Night

Ch 1: The Night I Can't Forget (10)

About twenty years ago, there was a popular Chinese song called Women Are Tigers. There's a type of man who specializes in conquering "tigers", which made them even more dangerous.

At this moment, this dangerous man was standing behind a naked woman who was kneeling beside the bed. He pulled her arm back to keep her in control, like riding a horse galloping across the vast blue bed sheet.

The word "mazi" (a slang term in Chinese for calling a woman, the character means horse) carries a subconscious sense of conquest and satisfaction for men. Men, after all, see conquering the world as their mission, and they pursue it tirelessly throughout their lives. Most men aren't heroes who can conquer the entire world, so they at least start by conquering half of it.

This woman's figure seen from behind wasn't exactly great. That girl he met at The Roxy, she had the perfect slim waistline and flawless peach-shaped bottom. Unfortunately, because it was her first time, Arden didn't fully satisfy himself that night. 

His movements paused briefly, and he found it strange—why did he think of her at this moment? Comparing one woman to another only leads to frustration. His interest instantly waned, and he hastily wrapped things up. If he kept going like this, his reputation would surely take a hit.

Fortunately, most women are initially drawn to his handsome looks. Once in bed, their adrenaline clouds their heads, and under his vast experience, they are soon satisfied.
As for how long he lasted after that or whether he went for a second round, they didn't seem to care too much. Some women, who were frail and weak, probably even hoped he would stop sooner.

Women might not care, but men do. Yet now, what Arden cared about more was the girl from that night he hadn't fully enjoyed. He still couldn't figure out what had possessed him that day to let her go so easily. And he cared even more that she had ignored his phone number. That was probably the first time he had voluntarily given his number to a woman—usually, they begged him for it, and he wouldn't even bother. Something must have been wrong with his head that day.

At first, Arden thought her not calling was just a ploy to play hard to get. But it had been over two months now, and there wasn't a single sign from her. He believed she probably didn't see the number he left. There was no way she could have thrown it in the trash. For the first time, Arden found himself lingering on someone, but that someone did not. This feeling wasn't easy to swallow. It made him question his performance that night.

Sometimes, Arden couldn't help but wonder—what was so special about that girl?

Yes, she was beautiful, but it wasn't like he hadn't seen prettier women before. She did not wear makeup, did not do her hair. An unkempt appearance that could either be described as laziness or sloppiness.

His mother, on the other hand, would never be seen without makeup or perfectly styled hair—not because she couldn't, but because it was her way of showing respect and her serious attitude toward life. She was over forty but still maintained herself well, rivaling young women. Arden didn't necessarily agree with his mother's philosophy, but he was used to the women around him—including Moya—being somewhat polished and put together.

Yet amidst all the vivid colors at The Roxy, he had spotted that girl immediately. Why? Was it just because of her plainness? On campus, there were plenty of innocent-looking, fresh-faced female students. Why hadn't he been tempted to pounce on them? Or was it the faint sadness in her eyes? But he wasn't a priest or a counselor—her sorrow had nothing to do with him. He went to The Roxy purely for fun.

Arden thought he could guess her troubles. Beneath her determined, carefree attitude lay carefully hidden tension and unease. She wasn't naturally wild or an adventurous thrill-seeker. She was fighting against herself. He had encountered girls like her before—heartbroken after being abandoned by a man, filled with grief and self-destructive tendencies. Later, they'd shift all the blame onto him, as if he were the root of all evil. But God knows these things were always consensual—it wasn't like he forced anyone.

So, when Arden brought her out of The Roxy, he had held back, not quite actively pursuing her. He didn't want to get caught in another mess he needed to spend extra effort to shake off. But she was different. Especially when she leaned against the hotel wall, tilting her head to study him—he just knew she was different. 

The alcohol had slightly clouded her eyes, but it couldn't hide that glimmer of light in them. A glimmer of defiance, like a warrior about to duel, provoking the opponent with faint disdain. It was that challenge from her that made him drop the pretense, take the first step, and close the distance between them.

Her kisses were clumsy, yet she didn't back down from his advances; she even met them head-on. She stripped away his clothes, even more eagerly than he did. But he could feel she wasn't like the women he had been with before. She wasn't desperate to have him—she was simply unwilling to lose to him. She was like a warrior who knew she would lose but charged forward anyway, abandoning defense in favor of attack. Instead of rushing, he watched her struggle from above, enjoying the spectacle.

Her body wasn't as slender as he had imagined. Most Asian girls seek a slimmer body and get to a fragile thinness by dieting. But her muscles had smooth, powerful lines, bursting with energy. Lacking the softness typical of women, her body had a unique, firm elasticity. At times, it felt like he was in control of her, but other times, it seemed as if she was controlling him. The more he looked at her, the more he was drawn in, until he unknowingly found himself entirely consumed by her stubborn war. In that moment, it was hard to say who had conquered whom—his seasoned tricks or her pure yet unyielding resolve.

He hadn't expected her to be a virgin. Even when he tore open the condom packaging, she calmly watched his hands, unflinching. Looking back, it wasn't because of her familiarity with this situation but the determination of her watching an enemy prepare to breach her walls, with no intention of resisting. She had acted like a fighter the whole time. But when he finally entered her, her closed eyes, furrowed brows, and her stubborn refusal to let out a sound as she bit her lip—all of it struck a chord in his heart, filling it with an inexplicable ache. That fleeting pain instantly softened his determination to conquer her, leaving only a tender desire to cherish her.

Men all have a bit of a fixation with virgins. Walking a brand-new path is always more appealing than treading a road worn down by countless footsteps, wheels, and possibly even manure. Although she wasn't the first virgin he had taken and wouldn't be the last, being her first satisfied his male vanity more than anything.

Perhaps she wasn't a bottle of pure water but a bottle of mineral water—maybe even with added carbonation. Seemingly bland and flavorless, yet full of excitement. She appeared simple but concealed her depths. Regardless, that unforgettable night lingered in his heart, piercing it like a thorn.