Bluewater

Main Characters

Alex Thompson – Male, 28

American creative director, newly transferred to Shanghai. Talented, ambitious, dangerously attracted to his boss’s wife. Single, lonely, and already in way over his head.

Wei Li (Mrs. Chen) – Female, 37

Elegant, sophisticated “Lady Boss” of the company. Former New York art student, now trapped in a gilded, sexless marriage. Bored, beautiful, and burning for the one man she shouldn’t want.

David Chen – Male, 52

Charismatic and ruthless Asia-Pacific Regional Director. Alex’s mentor and Wei’s husband. Drinks hard, works harder, and has no idea his perfect life is unraveling—or does he?

Alex Thompson rubbed his tired eyes. The office clock read 10:30 p.m.

As the only foreigner on the Asia-Pacific team, the 28-year-old American had once again become the designated driver for his drunk boss.

Tonight, David Chen, Asia-Pacific Regional Director, was sprawled unconscious across the back seat of Alex’s rented Tesla.

They pulled into the riverside palace.

Before Alex could even press the doorbell on the 23rd floor, the door opened.

Wei Li stood there in a whisper-thin midnight-blue silk robe that ended dangerously high on her thighs.

Her hair was still damp, clinging to her collarbones; the faint scent of jasmine and warm skin drifted out like an invitation.

Everyone in the company knew Mrs. Chen, the legendary “Lady Boss.”

She handpicked the seven-figure client gifts with unerring taste, greenlit or quietly killed multimillion-dollar campaigns with the arch of a single eyebrow, and glided through quarterly gala dinners in gowns that turned seasoned executives into stammering boys.

Colleagues spoke of her in hushed tones, stepping aside when she approached, their deference bordering on reverence.

Tonight, though, in the privacy of her living room, she seemed different—younger, softer, almost unguarded.

The tailored suits were gone, replaced by that whisper-thin midnight-blue silk robe that clung to her like a secret.

“Thank you for bringing him home again.” she said.

“Come in. At least let me give you water before you drive back.”

Alex stepped inside, helping her half-carry Chen to the sofa.

While Wei knelt gracefully on the plush carpet of the penthouse living room, the glittering Shanghai skyline twinkling beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, she gently cradled Alex's black leather dress shoe in her hands.

Her long, slightly damp dark hair cascaded forward like a silken curtain, stray droplets of water catching the warm indoor glow and shimmering faintly along the strands.

The thin, sheer midnight-blue silk robe draped modestly over her body, but as she leaned forward to untie the laces with careful, deliberate fingers, the fabric parted softly at the center.

The robe opened just enough in the middle to reveal the gentle inner curves of her breasts—the soft, full swell rising with each quiet breath, the faint, tantalizing outline of her nipples subtly visible through the translucent silk.

No bra beneath, only the delicate play of shadow and hint of warm skin peeking through the narrow gap, teasing the eye without ever fully revealing.

She caught him staring.

A deep blush instantly flooded her cheeks and spread down her throat. Flustered, Wei quickly reached up with trembling fingers, tugging the fallen edge of the robe back over her shoulder and pulling the silk tightly closed across her chest. The fabric whispered against her skin as she clutched it, her breathing uneven, eyes darting away in embarrassment.

Alex’s throat went dry.

She rose gracefully and padded toward the kitchen, the silk robe now held modestly closed, swaying softly with her steps in a gentle swish, her hips moving in a natural, unthinking rhythm that still sent a faint breeze carrying her warmth and jasmine scent toward him.

When she returned carrying two glasses, the faint clink of ice echoing softly, she leaned forward slightly to hand him his. In that small, careful motion, her fingers unintentionally brushed against his—light as a breath, the cool condensation from the glass and her warm, soft skin grazing his knuckles for the briefest moment, sending a quiet spark through him.

She didn’t seem to notice at first, but the faint flush on her cheeks deepened as she realized the accidental touch. She quickly withdrew her hand, curling her fingers tightly around her own glass as if to steady herself, her gaze dropping shyly to the floor, her breathing a touch quicker.

They sat.

Chen snored in the background like a broken metronome.

Conversation flowed too easily: New York lofts, Shanghai insomnia, the loneliness of being surrounded by people yet unseen.

Every time she laughed softly, a gentle, melodic sound that filled the quiet room, she would unconsciously touch the side of her neck with her fingertips—a shy, habitual gesture that drew his eyes to the delicate hollow of her throat.

The sheer, midnight-blue silk robe she wore clung lightly to her skin like a whisper, its thin fabric cool and smooth against her warmth, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of jasmine as she moved.

The hem fell high, barely brushing the very tops of her thighs, shimmering subtly in the soft lamplight.

When she shifted in her seat to reach for her teacup, the silk robe parted slightly along her crossed legs with a hushed rustle, revealing a fleeting glimpse of smooth, pale skin high on her thigh—the air between them seeming to grow warmer in that instant.

She didn’t notice at first, but his gaze lingered there longer than he intended, unable to pull away, his breath catching quietly at the unexpected intimacy.

Only when she turned back did she catch him staring.

A rush of warmth flooded her cheeks, turning them a deep rose; her eyes widened for a moment before dropping shyly to her lap.

She quickly tugged the edges of the robe together, fingers trembling just a little as she smoothed the cool silk over her thighs, the fabric sliding softly under her touch, clearly flustered.

He realized he’d been caught and immediately felt heat rise in his own face, his pulse quickening.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, the sound rough in the sudden silence, looking away toward the window, pretending sudden interest in the night view outside while the faint scent of her lingered in the air around him.

Yet each time their eyes met again—brief, accidental glances—hers held a quiet, lingering warmth, something tender and unspoken that made the air between them feel charged, heavy with the subtle hum of unspoken tension.

When he finally stood to leave, she walked him to the door, the silk robe swaying gently with each step, brushing against her skin with the softest whisper.

At the threshold, she paused close enough that he could feel the faint, radiant warmth from her body and catch the subtle notes of her scent mingling with the cool night air seeping in.

“Drive safe, Alex.” she whispered, her voice soft and low, like velvet brushing against his senses.

She lifted her gaze to his, and in her eyes there was a reluctant parting mingled with that same shy, unmistakable affection—warm, lingering, and full of quiet longing that made the moment stretch, heavy and sweet.

The elevator doors closed.

Alex leaned against the mirrored wall, pulse hammering, cock aching against his zipper.

Across the city, in the vast bed beside her snoring husband, Wei lay wide awake.

Moonlight painted silver bars across the sheets.

She pressed her thighs together, remembering the way Alex’s trousers had strained, the thick, obvious, hungry.

In the heavy silence of the bedroom her husband lay beside her, close enough that she could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest, hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing, deep and undisturbed in sleep.

Her fingers trembled as they slipped beneath the cool, slippery silk of her midnight-blue robe, the fabric whispering softly against her skin as it parted.

The touch was feather-light at first, tentative, as though she could still stop.

But the memory of Alex’s gaze earlier that night—of the way his eyes had darkened, fixed on her with quiet hunger—flooded her mind unbidden.

Heat pooled low in her belly, a slow, aching throb that made her thighs press together instinctively.

She traced slow, guilty circles over the slick warmth between her legs, each gentle stroke sending a shiver through her body.

In her mind, it wasn’t her own fingers—it was his hand, strong and sure, cupping her possessively.

She imagined the weight of him, that unmistakable hardness she’d glimpsed straining against his trousers, now hot and heavy in her palm.

Her breath hitched softly as she pictured taking him into her mouth, tasting salt and desire, feeling him pulse against her tongue.

And then deeper—him sliding into her, filling her completely, stretching her with slow, deliberate thrusts while she bit her lip to stay silent.

A faint whimper escaped before she could stop it. She froze, heart pounding, eyes darting to her husband’s still form.

He didn’t stir. Relief and shame twisted together inside her chest—this was wrong, so wrong, lying here beside the man she’d promised forever to, fantasizing about another.

Yet the guilt only sharpened the pleasure, made her touch more urgent, more desperate.

Her hips shifted slightly against the sheets, the silk robe riding higher, cool air kissing the fevered skin of her inner thighs.

Every sense felt heightened: the soft rustle of fabric, the distant hum of the air conditioner, the warmth radiating from her husband’s body just inches away.

She was terrified he might wake, might sense the tremor in her breathing, the faint scent of her arousal rising in the dark. And yet that fear only made her wetter, made her circles tighter, faster.

Her body arched just a fraction on the rumpled white sheets, legs bending at the knees and spreading wide in raw, involuntary surrender—knees high, feet planted firmly, soles arched upward as her thighs parted brazenly to the cool midnight air.

One hand roamed greedily to her left breast, fingers splaying to cup the heavy swell, thumb and forefingers pinching and rolling the sensitive tip in teasing circles that sent fresh sparks down her spine.

The other hand delved unashamedly between her spread thighs, palm pressing flat against her slick, swollen folds, middle and ring fingers dipping inside the drenched heat, stroking in urgent, rhythmic thrusts while her palm ground against her throbbing clit.

She pressed her lips together, stifling the soft gasp that rose as pleasure crested, sharp and sudden.

In the final rush, it was Alex’s name she silently breathed—not her husband’s—while waves of quiet, trembling release crashed over her, her inner walls clenching around her fingers, juices coating her hand and glistening on her pale inner thighs in the red-tinged light.

Afterward, she lay very still, fingers withdrawn, palm pressed to her racing heart. Shame settled heavy in her throat, but beneath it lingered a warm, secret ache—a longing she knew wouldn’t fade by morning.

She closed her eyes, the guilt clinging to her skin, and wondered how long she could keep pretending none of this had ever happened.

The clock on the nightstand glowed faintly—2:17 a.m.—casting a dim red hue over the tangled silk covers.

This was only the beginning of the most exquisite sexual adventure either of them would ever know.

To be continued…