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A Saturday afternoon in May, and the Taipei sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the German showroom, casting a cold, premium sheen over the polished metal. I pushed open the heavy glass doors, the crisp bite of the air conditioning instantly enveloping me, cutting off the restless hum of the city outside—a noise a disciplined man in his mid-40s had long learned to tune out.
It was a season for rewards. I lingered casually in front of a deep gray sports crossover, my fingers tracing the smooth line of the door handle. Then, the faint sound of footsteps approached from behind. Not rushed, but moving with a distinct, confident rhythm. I turned, my gaze landing first on a pair of long legs clad in ultra-sheer black stockings. Her ankles were delicate, and under the cool showroom lighting, the flesh beneath the dark nylon looked incredibly pale, taut, and flawless.
“The chassis feedback on this model is much firmer than it looks,” a voice smooth as silk noted. “It’s built for someone who likes to dictate the pace themselves.”
The girl speaking looked to be in her early twenties, dressed in a sharp, tailored blazer over a form-fitting white shirt, paired with a dark pleated plaid miniskirt. Her long hair carried a light, effortless volume, a few strands of bangs brushing her forehead. Her face was as perfectly sculpted as a precision instrument, yet her eyes held a cool, detached confidence that defied her age. She didn’t possess the usual sycophantic grin of a salesperson; instead, she looked like she was sizing up a worthy opponent.
I smiled, my gaze drifting down to where her crisp white shirt rose and fell with her breath, charting the heavy, aching fullness beneath the fabric. She noticed my appraisal but didn’t flinch or cover up. Instead, she merely reached up to adjust her slightly crooked plaid tie, the corner of her lips tilting into a knowing smirk.
“I’m Anthea,” she said, sliding a business card into my hand. The briefest brush of her fingers left a cool, electric tingle against my skin. “Want to take a spin? And I don’t just mean the car. Test my taste.”
The afternoon melted away in a blur of low engine growls and sharp conversation. Anthea was incredibly sharp; she understood torque, suspensions, and precisely how to showcase her disciplined, breathtaking silhouette without looking like she was trying. Swapping back to my own car, our conversation flowed from the showroom to an exclusive, discreet kitchen in Dazhi. Fueled by fine wine and gourmet dishes, her cool demeanor gradually thawed into a dangerous, magnetic intimacy. She leaned back in her chair, crossing one long leg over the other, the tip of her black nylon-clad foot tracing lazy circles in the air. Her eyes grew hazy as she locked her gaze onto mine. “Sir… a man like you must be incredibly difficult to truly read.” By nine in the evening, as the neon lights outside blurred past the windows, I suggested we head somewhere private for a nightcap. She merely offered a soft, teasing murmur: “Your car drives perfectly fine. You don’t really need to replace it, do you?”
By ten o’clock, we were standing in the entryway of my high-rise luxury apartment. Outside the expansive glass windows, the Xinyi District skyline spilled out beneath us like a scattering of brilliant jewels. Anthea slipped off her blazer, tossing it carelessly onto the leather sofa, her rich brunette hair shimmering softly under the moonlight. She walked slowly toward me, resting her hands flat against my broad shoulders. She tilted her chin up, bringing her flawless face scant inches from mine. I could catch the faint, intoxicating draft of her perfume, laced with the subtle scent of new car leather.
I slid my arms around her waist, feeling the firm, tight curve of her hips beneath the pleated skirt. My palms slid downward, rubbing the smooth, warm satin of her outer thighs through the whisper-thin black stockings. She let out a shallow sigh, melting into my frame, the soft, heavy curves of her breasts pressing hard against my unyielding chest, flattening delightfully against me with every breath.
“Eric…” she whispered against my ear, her voice husky and dripping with provocation. “Is all that discipline of yours strictly reserved for the gym?”
The bedroom was bathed in a deep, sultry blue by the midnight moon. I pressed Anthea down onto the silk sheets, her long, nylon-clad legs tangling and sliding against one another, producing a soft, rustling hiss of friction that filled the quiet room. My fingers moved with practiced ease, unbuttoning her shirt—one, two—and as the white fabric parted, her tight, beautifully upturned breasts trembled slightly in the cool air, their swollen pearls aching for attention. I leaned down, burying my face in the heavy depth of her cleavage, drinking in the heat of her sun-kissed skin.
Anthea’s composed façade shattered completely. Her neck arched back, her fingers locking desperately into the hard muscles of my back, her nails leaving faint crimson tracks across my skin. I stripped away the obstacle of her plaid skirt, catching her stocking-clad thighs and sliding them wide apart to reveal her most sacred, drenched gateway. My palm cupped her heat, my fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over the thin mesh, feeling the escalating furnace of her body and the uncontrollable, rhythmic fluttering beneath my touch.
“Ready?” I murmured against her lips. She didn’t bother with words; instead, she violently gripped my collar and dragged me down into a fierce, breathless kiss. I didn’t hesitate, driving home into her tight, welcoming sanctuary in one smooth, unyielding thrust. The friction was absolute—a crushing, searing embrace so tight it felt as though she were swallowing my entire length. With every heavy, deliberate plunge, Anthea’s breath fractured into desperate whimpers. Her exquisite face was a mask of pure ecstasy, her long hair wild across the pillows like a blooming dark rose. Every slam of my hips elicited a wet, heavy friction, her slender legs locking tightly around my waist, riding my rhythm as we crashed against her absolute limit. We claimed each other repeatedly in the dark, skin slick with sweat, until the final, blinding release crested over us like a tidal wave.
When the storm finally passed, I carried her into the en-suite bathroom. Warm water cascaded down our tangled bodies, washing away the evidence of our collision as milky foam slid over her smooth skin. She curled into my chest, eyes closed as she savored the quiet. The wild, untamed temptress from moments ago was now as soft and pliable as a kitten. We held each other in the warm depth of the tub, needing no words, listening only to the lapping water and the slow settling of our hearts.
The next morning, the Taipei sun cut through the early mist, flooding the bedroom with brilliant light. Morning desires always bloom with a fiercer, more primitive urgency. Somewhere between sleep and waking, I felt a soft, supple weight straddling my hips. Anthea sat atop me, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders, the golden light sketching the elegant, athletic line of her spine. She leaned down, her tresses brushing my bare chest with a delicious friction. She looked down at me with an amused, lazy gaze—all the cold distance replaced by a sleepy, comfortable intimacy.
Our morning rhythm was slow and indulgent, refusing to rush toward the finish, opting instead to savor every deep, sliding inch of friction. Her movements were fluid yet incredibly bold, every deliberate lift and drop sending a rolling shudder of pleasure straight to my core. By the time the sun fully claimed the room, we crested the peak together once more, the morning exertion leaving both our bodies completely awake, buzzing with a raw, vital energy.
Afterward, Anthea slipped back into the bathroom to freshen up while I pulled on a pair of comfortable lounge pants and stepped into the kitchen. The skillet hummed on the stove, the rich aroma of melting butter filling the air. With practiced precision, I prepared a couple of sunny-side-up eggs, toasted thick slices of whole wheat bread, and ground a fresh batch of coffee beans. By the time Anthea stepped out—perfectly put together, dressed back in that sharp, professional, yet inherently teasing uniform—breakfast was already waiting on the island.
She took a seat at the counter, arching a perfectly sculpted brow at the spread. “Eric… are you practicing to be the perfect boyfriend?”
“I simply prefer executing things to perfection, whether it’s business, or breakfast,” I replied, sliding a warm latte toward her. We finished the meal in a comfortable silence, our eyes meeting occasionally, heavy with the shared secrets and warmth of the night before.
At exactly eight-forty-five, I fired up the engine, driving her back toward the Neihu showroom. The morning traffic was dense, but inside the cabin, a serene, luxurious quiet prevailed. Anthea sat in the passenger seat, pulling out a compact mirror to touch up her lipstick before turning her gaze back to me, that cool, untouchable aura sliding effortlessly back into place.
“That car yesterday… are you actually going to buy it?” she asked, a sly glint in her eyes.
“Perhaps,” I said, bringing the car to a smooth stop right outside the showroom entrance. “It depends entirely on how good the after-sales service turns out to be.”
Right at nine, she pushed open the door and stepped onto the pavement. She paused, turning back to offer a casual wave, her long legs still utterly captivating in the morning light. She didn’t try to lock down another date beyond her business contact, and I didn’t press for one. For a bachelor who values his freedom, a Saturday like that, followed by such an unexpected morning, was already the most generous kind of luxury.
I watched her push through the showroom doors, vanishing into the cold silhouettes of the luxury vehicles inside. Then, I pressed down on the accelerator, letting my car dissolve into the roaring, waking current of Taipei.