Their current position was undeniably compromising. Chen Huaixu lounged on the sofa, while she straddled his lap, cupping his face. The scene screamed intimacy, like a snapshot of lovers.

His free hand snaked around her waist, pulling her down until she tumbled into his arms.

"Oh? Then why were you on top of me? Touching me all over?"

"I wasn't!" Yan Zhen retorted. "I was... I was..."

Failing to conjure a believable excuse, she threw caution to the wind, shoving him away and leaping off the sofa. Her escape was short-lived. The moment her toes touched the carpet, a hand grasped her waist, yanking her back.

The world spun. When her vision cleared, she found herself sprawled face down on the sofa.

She struggled to rise, but Chen Huaixu was quicker. He pressed down on her, trapping her between his legs, pinning her wrists behind her back, rendering her utterly immobile.

"Chen Huaixu...!" Exasperation laced her voice. "Let me go!"

He didn't respond, his intentions unclear.

Yan Zhen strained to turn her head, a near impossible feat in her current predicament. Unable to see his face, her anxiety intensified, fueled by her complete lack of control.

Just as she began to wonder what drunken game he was playing, a hard, cool object pressed against her lower back, nudging her twice.

"You..."

Before she could finish, the slender object lifted the hem of her shirt, tracing the curve of her back upwards, peeling away the fabric like candy wrapping, revealing the smooth, pale skin of her waist.

The plastic barrel of the pen was hard and cold against her warm flesh. His touch was light, deliberately slow, each stroke a tease, a provocation.

Yan Zhen was incredibly ticklish, especially around her waist. The sensation was unbearable. Her voice trembled. "Itchy...! Stop..."

That devil, Chen Huaixu! This was pure revenge.

She gasped for breath, ready to unleash a torrent of insults, when his movements abruptly ceased.

A second later, she heard a dull click. Glancing sideways, she saw the black pen cap lying on the carpet, rolling a short distance away.

Why would he take the cap off?

A wave of foreboding washed over her.

Almost immediately, something thinner, colder, pressed against the bare skin of her lower back. Recognizing it as the pen tip, she gritted her teeth. "Chen Huaixu! Don't you dare write on me—"

Her words were cut short. The cool tip glided across her skin, leaving a trail of tingling, maddeningly pleasant itches.

Yan Zhen had seen Chen Huaixu write before. His long, elegant fingers, knuckles defined, held the pen with effortless grace, each stroke precise and fluid, his handwriting as tidy and captivating as the man himself.

She never imagined he'd use her body as his canvas.

Humiliation and anger warred within her. The tickling was relentless, turning her curses into breathless gasps that hung in the air.

Finished with his artwork, Chen Huaixu tossed the pen aside and released her wrists. Her arms ached, her waist numb. She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down, his hand on her shoulder.

Her last reserves of strength depleted, she grumbled, "You've written whatever you wanted. What now?"

"Let's play a game," he finally spoke, his gaze fixed on the soft curve of her waist, his fingers tracing its outline. "Guess what I wrote. Guess right, and I'll let you go. Guess wrong, and you take off a piece of clothing."

Yan Zhen couldn't believe her ears. "Why should I take off my clothes?!"