Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 11

Dong Junhao didn’t dare let his eyes linger on the open collar of the bathrobe. He quickly glanced across the smooth surface of the table and then down at his own rough hands. His voice was dry and tight. “You… you lie face down first.”

He had even forgotten to lay down a towel.

Fang Mingxuan complied, unfastening the belt of his robe. The velvet fabric slid down his body and pooled at the edge of the table. Then, without any hesitation or cover, he calmly laid that body sculpted like fine mutton-fat jade prone upon the smooth, cold acrylic surface.

He crossed his arms, resting his sharply defined jaw upon them. Tilting his head to the side, he waited leisurely.

The elegant lines of his back were fully exposed. The spinal groove dipped into an inviting shadow, and the back muscles on either side spread out symmetrically. Under the warm yellow lights of the bathhouse, his skin appeared moist, almost translucently fair. It formed an extreme contrast with Dong Junhao’s bronze, rugged complexion.

By habit, Dong Junhao reached for the nylon scrubbing mitt hanging nearby. Just as he was about to slip it over his hand, Fang Mingxuan’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. His voice was flat but carried an air of non-negotiable command: “Don’t use that.”

He paused, his gaze falling on Dong Junhao’s hands. “Use your hands instead. Last time, the hand scrub felt quite comfortable.”

Dong Junhao froze, his fingers pinching the coarse nylon mesh. He understood immediately. Indeed, how could such a cheap, rough mitt one that had scrubbed God knows how many people—be allowed to touch skin that looked like it would bruise at the slightest contact?

He silently set the mitt down, a trace of self-deprecation flickering through his mind: Use my hands? My hands are like sandpaper; how much “finer” could they be than the mitt?

But since the guest had requested it, he would use his hands.

He scooped a ladle of warm water from the nearby bucket. His wrist trembled ever so slightly. Splash, he poured the water evenly over that blindingly white back. Glistening droplets gathered quickly, rolling down the smooth texture of the skin and leaving behind a wet sheen.

“Then… I’ll start. You… bear with it.”

The same words Dong Junhao used for every customer now carried a different weight a clumsy caution, even a hint of “tenderness” he hadn’t noticed himself.

“Mm.” Fang Mingxuan let out a short, low hum from his throat a response devoid of emotion, as if simply allowing an experiment to proceed.

Dong Junhao closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearing his mind. He focused all his energy on the scrubbing technique he had only recently mastered. He tried to summon the “controlled” strength and rhythm he had honed on the backs of numerous guests over the past few days, pressing his powerful palm steadily onto the man’s back.

“Ngh…”

Unlike the expected cries of pain or muffled groans of endurance, Fang Mingxuan’s body only tensed for a split second, as if pricked by an acupuncture needle. Then, a low nasal sound escaped his throat, vibrating deep in his chest.

The sound was faint, nearly lost in the noise of running water, yet it possessed a strangely heavy quality. It pierced Dong Junhao’s eardrums unexpectedly, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Dong Junhao didn’t dare stop, nor did he dare investigate that sound. Applying pressure through his wrist, his rough palm followed the musculature along the spine, beginning to scrub with force.

The coarse texture of his palm acted directly on the skin without buffer or reservation. Wherever he passed, a striking red mark immediately surfaced on the fair base, looking like a fresh Gua Sha treatment.

However, Fang Mingxuan didn’t flinch or show any instinctive resistance. On the contrary, after that initial tension, his body relaxed completely. He even slightly adjusted the angle of his crossed arms to allow his back muscles to stretch further.

Only occasionally, when the calluses on Dong Junhao’s palms slid over the thin skin of his shoulder blades, would he let out a sharp, short intake of breath. But immediately after, his relaxation became even more thorough, as if that small point of pain had unblocked a meridian.

This was a world away from the comical experience in the VIP room, separated by a bathtub and water. There was no awkward distance here, no barrier caused by ill-suited tools. Here, on the “battlefield” Dong Junhao knew best the one he controlled with instinct and raw strength a primitive, direct, even somewhat savage “exchange” was taking place.

Strength and endurance, coarseness and delicacy, silence and suppressed feedback a wordless dialogue formed between them.

Dong Junhao could clearly sense every shift in the muscle fibers beneath his palm, and the process of the skin temperature rising through friction. He felt the silent but undeniable feedback this pampered body gave to every ounce of pressure and every angle of his scraping: the micro-tremors of the muscles, the change in breathing rhythm, and even an indescribable, gradually accumulating “acceptance.”

Sweat seeped from his coarse hairline, gathering into droplets that slid down his temples and brow. A few drops splashed directly onto the polished table, but he remained oblivious. His world had been forcibly compressed, focused entirely on the few inches where his palm met that reddened, sweat-slicked back.

In his ears, there was only the occasional drip of water, his own deepening breath, and the monotonous, heart-tightening rasp of skin against skin. The other noises of the bathhouse the chatter of guests, the sloshing of the pools, the distant showers seemed to be separated by a thick layer of invisible glass, becoming blurry and remote.

A certain unnamable atmosphere began to brew and spread silently amidst the rough friction, the rising steam, and the suppressed breathing.

“Master Dong,” Fang Mingxuan suddenly spoke. His voice was somewhat muffled due to his prone position, but it remained clear, shattering the strange silence. “Where is your hometown?”

This sudden, mundane question startled Dong Junhao. His rhythmic scrubbing faltered for half a beat, and his thick calluses slipped across the wet skin.

“Shan… Shandong,” he answered honestly, his voice tight from tension and exertion.

“Shandong…” Fang Mingxuan dragged out the words as if savoring them between his teeth, with the leisurely air of someone critiquing local scenery.

Then, he continued in a conversational yet meaningful tone: “I’ve heard the soil and water there are good—it breeds people well. It seems… everything there grows quite tall, quite big, and quite substantial.”

He paused. From his angle, his side-profile gaze fell inevitably and diagonally onto Dong Junhao’s shorts, which were pulled tight as he leaned forward with effort. Sweat had long since soaked the thin fabric, causing it to cling damply and outline a full, heavy silhouette.

At such close range and from such an unguarded, low vantage point, the visual impact was blunt and immediate. It carried a raw, masculine aura of sweat and rising body heat.

“No wonder you have such a… well, sturdy build, Master Dong.”

Fang Mingxuan’s gaze lingered there for a subtle moment. His Adam’s apple bobbed almost imperceptibly before he pulled his eyes back to Dong Junhao’s sweat-drenched torso. His tone carried an unfathomable sigh of appreciation.

“!”

Dong Junhao caught the meaningful pause and felt the searing heat of a gaze that was almost physical. He suddenly realized the awkwardness of his current posture.

A rush of blood went straight to his head; his face flushed a deep crimson, and even the tips of his ears began to burn. As if he had been scalded, he nearly jumped back. He stopped his movements in a flustered scramble, his voice cracking and stuttering: “The… the back is done! Flip… flip over! It’s time to… to scrub the front!”

He was desperate to end this suffocating, excruciatingly awkward position and conversation—as if once the man turned over, that scorching gaze and those suggestive words would be blocked.

He forgot, however, that flipping over might make the situation even more exposed and difficult to handle.