Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 7

This was a concept from an entirely different world compared to the hard, sturdy scrub tables he knew, where a customer had to lie perfectly still for him to apply any real force!

“I, this.” He was incoherent, his face flushing so deeply it looked as though it might bleed. “This tub it’s too, too slippery. I can’t get any leverage. To scrub a back, you need a scrub table. The customer has to lie flat so I, I can.”

“Right here will do,” Fang Mingxing interrupted. His tone remained calm, not even rising in volume, yet the underlying authority was like cold metal, instantly freezing all of Dong Junhao’s protestations.

He even took his time adjusting his position, sinking deeper into the soft cushions of the massage chair, looking as if he were preparing to enjoy a bizarre and unique play staged entirely for his own whim.

“No need to make it complicated,” he added. “A simple scrub is fine. And the water temperature,” he supplemented, “make it a bit hotter.”

Since the guest had made up his mind, there was no room for negotiation.

Dong Junhao stood there feeling like a primitive man suddenly dropped into a precision instrument room; everything before him exceeded his understanding. He looked at the blindingly luxurious white marble bathtub, then at the trays of unnamed bottles, jars, and tools of various shapes, and finally at the man on the chair, a man who seemed to radiate light yet issued such absurd commands.

Xu Jun’s whispered warnings buzzed in his ears, and the silent silhouettes of the bodyguards outside flickered in his mind. Gritting his teeth, he clumsily moved toward the bathtub, feeling as though he were walking on red-hot iron plates rather than soft carpet.

He began to study the crystal-clear faucets. The hot and cold labels were written in elegant, cursive English that he couldn’t read. He spent ages twisting them, either getting blasted with scalding water or shivering cold streams. In his frantic haste, water splashed onto his thin work pants.

Finally, relying on brute force and a rough sense of temperature, he filled the tub. Billowing white steam rose, drifting over the water. He turned back, sweat already sliding down his temples, looking toward Fang Mingxing with a helpless, pleading gaze.

Fang Mingxing seemed to find this clumsiness, so poorly matched to the man’s massive physique quite amusing. The mirth in his eyes became more genuine. Without waiting for Junhao to say anything else, he moved to untie the belt of his bathrobe.

The high-quality silk robe slid down his body, piling up beside the chair. He stepped onto the soft carpet barefoot, his form fully revealed under the gentle lights. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long legs; his muscle lines were symmetrical and fluid, covered by a layer of thin, tight tissue. It was a physique shaped by scientific training and meticulous care skin pale and smooth, almost flawless.

He walked toward the tub with a composed gait, stepped into the warm water, and slowly sat down until the surface reached his chest. He leaned back, arms spreading comfortably across the wide rim, and closed his eyes. a soft, satisfied sigh escaped his throat.

The water rippled gently with his movements, reflecting the lights and his shifting shadow. The room fell silent for a few seconds, save for the faint burbling of the water feature.

“You can begin.” Fang Mingxing didn’t open his eyes. He merely tilted his head toward the air or rather, toward Dong Junhao, who stood frozen and empty-handed by the tub.

Dong Junhao was completely stunned. Scrub with what? His gaze darted frantically over the exquisite silver-plated tray. It held only soft natural sponges, fine boar-bristle brushes, and a delicately textured loofah. Every item was brand new. After much hesitation, he finally picked up the boar-bristle brush, which seemed the largest and most “practical.”

What followed was a silent farce of cognitive dissonance and power contrast.

Holding the brush, which felt tiny and dainty in his hand, Dong Junhao stood at the edge of the luxury tub like a giant wielding a toy sword. Facing Fang Mingxing, who looked like a white jade relief resting with closed eyes, he had no idea how to proceed.

He experimented by using the softest part of the brush to extremely lightly touch Fang Mingxing’s submerged shoulder blade. The movement was as light as a dragonfly skimming water.

Fang Mingxing didn’t move. His eyelashes didn’t even quiver. He only let out an extremely faint, questioning “Mmm?” from his nose, the sound trailing off in the quiet air. This “Mmm” was both a command and a silent urge.

Junhao gritted his teeth and hardened his heart. Channeling the force, he used on the scrub tables downstairs, he gripped the poor little brush and began to “scrub” Fang Mingxing’s smooth back with vigorous, back-and-forth strokes!

The soft bristles couldn’t scrape anything away. They only churned the water into a noisy splash, creating a pile of useless foam that stuck to Fang Mingxing’s neck and hair.

“…”

Fang Mingxing’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly for a fleeting second. Then, he leaned back into an even more relaxed posture, though his shoulders began to shake with a rhythmic, slight tremor. He was clearly trying his best to suppress the laughter threatening to burst from his throat.

He finally spoke again; his voice laced with unmistakable pleasure and mischief: “Is your scrubbing service always this… unique? Or,” he tilted his head slightly, opening one eye a sliver to glance at the pathetic “tool” in Junhao’s hand, “is the equipment not quite to your liking?”

Junhao’s face had turned a bruised purple. He squeezed the small brush until it creaked. Sweat gathered at his temples and nose, merging into streams that rolled down. He held his breath for a full five seconds before squeezing a thunderous sentence through his teeth: “…I really can’t get any leverage. This thing is too, too soft. It’s useless.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

Fang Mingxing suddenly moved. Without warning, he turned around in the water, creating a loud splash that dampened Junhao’s pant legs. He looked at Junhao face-to-face. Water droplets rolled rapidly down his defined collarbone and the groove of his chest muscles, vanishing into the swaying warm water.

Those deep, pool-like eyes were now wide open, filled with unshielded, sparkling mischief. They locked onto Junhao’s panicked face. His gaze, carrying a tangible warmth, slowly drifted downward, landing on Junhao’s large, rough hands now clenched into fists, knuckles white, veins protruding, slick with water and sweat.

Those hands were full of the marks left by years of battling heavy weights and coarse materials. They were out of place with everything in this room, yet they contained the most primitive, direct power.

A more obvious, teasing curve hooked the corner of Fang Mingxing’s mouth. He spoke slowly, word by word, making a suggestion that nearly caused Junhao’s blood to freeze:

“Since the tools aren’t handy, how about we just don’t use them?”

He paused, ensuring Junhao fully grasped his meaning, then continued in a low, coaxing, yet undeniable magnetic tone:

“I think, those hands of yours would be quite suitable.”

“Why don’t we,”

“give it a try?”

Dong Junhao felt as if he had been struck by five bolts of lightning. He froze into a literal stone statue. He looked down, staring blankly at his open hands palms with deep lines, thick calluses, and tiny scars.

Then he looked up at the handsome face mere inches away in the steam, a face full of playfulness and scrutiny. He saw the other’s defenseless, fully visible body in the water.

The air in the room seemed to be sucked out, becoming thick, stagnant, and suffocating. Only the hot water in the tub continued to ripple slightly from Fang Mingxing’s earlier movement, making a tiny, rhythmic sound against the marble wall.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Beating against the total vacuum of Dong Junhao’s mind.