Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 24

Zhan's Pov.

It's been two weeks, and life with Wang has been nothing but sweet.

He drops me off at work, waits for me, and picks me up when my shift is over. We move between our places so naturally, like we've been doing this forever.

I stop myself from thinking about his engagement. He's here. He's mine. Whatever happens after that... we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

The time we spend together is effortless. We talk, we laugh, we argue about stupid things like whether pineapple belongs on pizza. But more than anything, we want to be around each other. It's addicting, the way he looks at me, the way he touches me.

We've been making out a lot.

A lot.

We haven't had sex yet, but the tension lingers between us, thick and undeniable. The first time Wang went down on me, he was so clumsy, his teeth scraping in ways that made me wince more than moan. But he's gotten better. Now, when he touches me, when he kisses me, it's deliberate. Focused. Like he's learning me, figuring out exactly how to drive me crazy.

And I let him.

Because when he's with me, when his lips are on mine when we're tangled up in each other, nothing else matters. Not his engagement. Not the future. Not the world outside of us.

Just this.

Just him.

We are at Wang's place now, and every time I'm here, I can't help but admire how magnificent everything is.

The house is a masterpiece, spacious yet warm, with every detail carefully curated. The high ceilings make the rooms feel endless, and the floor-to-ceiling windows bathe the space in golden light. The walls are adorned with tasteful art, nothing too extravagant, but each piece speaks of wealth, of someone who appreciates beauty in its purest form.

The bedroom is no different. The bed is huge, the kind you could roll across three times and still not reach the other side. The sheets? Silky, cool against my skin, smelling of fresh linen and something distinctly Wang. The mattress is plush, pulling me into its softness every time I lay down, making it impossible not to sink into comfort.

And the kitchen, God, the kitchen. It's a dream, fitted with sleek marble countertops, top-of-the-line appliances, and a gas hob that looks like it belongs in a five-star restaurant. Every time I step in there, cooking feels effortless, like the space itself was designed to make even the simplest meal feel like an art form.

Now, curled in each other's arms on that magnificent bed, the world outside doesn't exist. There's only the warmth of Wang's body against mine, the steady rhythm of his breath, the peaceful silence that wraps around us like a second blanket.

Until he speaks.

"You don't want to have sex with me?"

The question comes out of nowhere, breaking the comfortable stillness between us.

I freeze. A mix of shock and excitement shoots through me, a slow burn that settles in my chest.

I pull back just enough to look at him, searching his face. "What?"

His gaze is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes, something vulnerable, something wanting.

"You never initiate it," he says softly. "And I don't want to pressure you, but... do you not want me like that?"

I blink, caught between the thrill of hearing him say it and the weight of what it means.

Want him?