Chapter 107

"Am I the first person to see your tattoo?" Winnie whispered, still lying beside him. "Yes," Van breathed softly, his tone subtly tense. "Are there any other 'firsts'?" Winnie asked innocently, her fingers lightly resting on his chest. Her hand was as soft as silk, almost weightless, yet her actions held an unconscious boldness, as if teasing him. "Winnie," Van called her name in a deep voice, his tone betraying his tension, "Please don't do that." Winnie persisted, "How about this? Am I the first for this too?" Van's Adam's apple moved involuntarily. After a moment, in the darkness, Winnie leaned down and gently pressed her lips to his tattoo. "How about this, Mr. Marlowe?" She didn't wait for an answer; Van suddenly pulled her up, her knees buckling slightly as she fell into his embrace. His grip was strong, almost making her wrist ache. "Do you do this with others too?" Van looked down, his gaze sharp as he asked. In the pitch darkness, where no light could reveal their expressions, only their breaths grew heavier. Winnie maintained her innocent demeanor, slowly pulling down her collar with her other hand. That instant, the heavy atmosphere made Van's heart race wildly. At that moment, his self-control nearly shattered. He breathed heavily, then gripped her head, forcing her to tilt her neck back, and kissed her fiercely. "Is this okay, Mr. Marlowe?" Winnie's voice lowered gently. Before he could respond, Van abruptly pulled her up; her knees stumbled on the ground, and she fell into his embrace. He held her tightly, his grip so strong that it caused a dull pain in her wrist. "Do you do this with others too?" Van's hand pressed against the back of her head, his eyes revealing a sharp, dark intensity. In the complete darkness around them, no light could illuminate their faces; the only thing perceptible was the heavy intertwining of their breaths. This intense atmosphere almost swept away Winnie's reverence, fear, and respect for him, replacing it with an unspeakable tension. "What?" she feigned ignorance, her other hand reaching for the fabric as thin as a cicada's wing. Her fingers traced the edge of the cloth, making Van feel an indescribable heaviness. He had never been treated like this before; this unfamiliar thrill felt like electricity coursing down his spine, stirring every nerve in him. In that instant, his mind nearly stalled, and his breathing grew rapid and heavy. Winnie didn't understand that he was a man who would never allow himself to lose control. Van's fingers tightly grasped her hair, mercilessly tilting her head back. Winnie's neck, soft and exposed, was met with his kiss, and then her entire body was pressed even tighter against him. The mattress groaned under the strain. Van leaned down to kiss her. Winnie let out a soft moan; the next second, the back of her hand felt the wet touch of his lips. "Don't move," his voice was deep and hoarse. Winnie froze, her body going limp, almost collapsing into his arms, allowing his possessive kisses and provocations to break through her defenses. That wet sensation lingered on the back of her hand, spreading slowly, moistening all her skin, the slick feeling causing her to tremble slightly. It seemed like the man intentionally wanted her to bear this scent, as if to warn her, stripping away her pretense of aloofness. Winnie felt numb all over, her loose shirt no longer offering any cover, revealing her completely. Outside the tent, a lurking beast paused, its ears perked up, alert. It seemed to hear a faint sound— Inside the tent, Winnie turned her hand, meeting that wet sensation with her palm. Her palm was smooth and damp, rubbing lightly, then gently enveloping it. Van couldn't help but let out a deep groan, his arm muscles tensing until they ached, nearly driving him to the brink as his pulse raced. Winnie wasn't keeping track of time, her head was spinning, making time seem irrelevant. She had no idea how long it had been; the intensity of the moment made it impossible for her to gauge the passage of time. Finally, Van lit the lantern beside them, its faint light illuminating Winnie's wrist. He gently picked up a tissue and meticulously wiped her fingers. His movements were extremely smooth, with a calm elegance. After wiping, he crumpled the tissue and looked up at her. Winnie's cheeks were burning, and as his gaze touched her, her heart raced, though her eyes showed a hint of slight grievance and defiance. "What's wrong?" Van looked at her, puzzled, his tone gentle yet with a hint of provocation. "You went too far," Winnie said softly, her eyes avoiding his. "Isn't that what you wanted?" Van chuckled lightly, his tone relaxed. "I..." Winnie struggled to express herself, her voice inadvertently quickening, "Why should I... have to do this?" "How would I know?" Van gave a low laugh, casually tossing the tissue into the trash, "If you don't like it, it won't happen again." Winnie opened her mouth but couldn't find the words. Her lips trembled slightly, then quieted under the pressure of Van's palm. That hand carried his scent and the strong aroma of his hormones, warm and tranquil, mixed with the intense atmosphere from moments before, giving her a feeling both strange and familiar. "Don't speak." Van commanded, his palm covering her mouth and nose, his eyes still dark and deep. "Whether you like it or not, there's no need to say." His words were soft, but the underlying threat was clear. If she said she didn't like it, it might make the game even more dangerous; if she said she liked it, how could he stay calm? Winnie lay back in his arms, being tightly held from behind, "What does your tattoo actually say?" Van answered in a soft voice, "'The unexamined life is not worth living' — it's a quote from Plato, from his 'Apology,' describing Socrates' defense before his death sentence in the Athenian court." "I remember that part," Winnie nodded, "Socrates was sentenced to death, charged with impiety." "Right," Van smiled, "When the tattoo artist asked what I wanted, I gave him this quote in English, but he suggested using ancient Greek because the characters themselves have more artistic appeal." "Does it hurt?" Winnie asked. "It hurt a lot," Van smirked slightly, "this should be the most painful spot on my body." Winnie imagined, more than twenty years ago, how he must have walked confidently across the bridges of Cambridge on an afternoon filled with idealism, determined to live a life worth examining. Back then, he was young and full of hope; now, he had become more composed, holding a high position, no longer as reckless as he once was. "Mr. Marlowe, do you think the life you're living now is one that can withstand examination?" Winnie couldn't help but ask. Van looked down at her and said, "At least until now, I haven't regretted it."