Flirting Recklessly With the White Moonlight Will Get You Marked - Chapter 12

12:

How can a woman say she’s not up to it?

Yan Qingqiu nervously held the measuring tape against her.

“What’s the number?” Song Qingre asked.

Yan Qingqiu replied, “Can’t you see for yourself?”

“Hmm, my eyesight’s not great. Could you read it for me?”

The two were standing extremely close, the slightest movement causing friction between them. The scent in the air grew increasingly intense. Song Qingre rested her hand on Yan Qingqiu’s shoulder and asked in confusion.

“Why are you sweating? Are you scared?”

“I… It’s just hot.” Yan Qingqiu’s fingers trembled as she read the numbers on the tape. “81C, not 123…” She still needed to count further. “Stop moving.”

“Okay.” Song Qingre stayed still.

Once the measurement was done, Yan Qingqiu quickly announced the result. “See? I told you, you’re not as good as an omega. So…” She tried to pull the tape away, but Song Qingre was faster, gripping her hand and cutting her off. “You’re so mean.”

What did I even do?

Yan Qingqiu glared at her.

“You know this isn’t the right way to measure, yet you still did it on purpose.” Song Qingre sighed softly. “Your friend is a fashion design director, you two must’ve measured plenty. And now you’re trying to trick me like this. Are you planning to do it again next time?”

“The numbers are right here. What nonsense are you spouting?” Yan Qingqiu frowned. “What kind of person do you take me for? I’ve never measured with her before.”

Wait, is this not how you measure bust size? Should I look it up?

This is bad. Really bad.

“Tsk…”

Yan Qingqiu looked up.

Song Qingre’s eyes lowered slightly. “You touched it.”

Yan Qingqiu felt like she was going insane.

Announce the number. Calculate it yourself.

Yan Qingqiu quickly retracted the tape, clenching her fists. “Even though the measurements are perfect, they’re not within my ideal range.”

“Fine.”

Song Qingre leaned sideways, resting her forehead against the sofa, her gaze fixed on Yan Qingqiu. Yan Qingqiu suddenly remembered Su Xingjie’s words:

“She looks at my face, but she looks at your chest.”

Yan Qingqiu couldn’t take it anymore and glanced back. Song Qingre started the car, driving attentively as they merged into traffic.

They hit several red lights along the way, making the drive less than smooth. Each time they stopped, Song Qingre would sigh softly, her breathing restrained, as if suppressing something.

When they finally arrived home, the butler stood stiffly at the door, ready to greet them. He bent slightly to open the car door for Yan Qingqiu.

“Miss, dinner is ready.”

Yan Qingqiu was still angry at him for not reporting back to her and instead just following Song Qingre’s orders. She ignored him completely.

The butler sighed inwardly. He had only been worried about Yan Qingqiu staying at hotels instead of coming home, fearing something might happen. Most importantly, he wanted them to reconcile.

The two entered the house one after the other. Song Qingre said, “Thank you, Uncle Dong. I’m not hungry right now. You all can eat.”

The butler insisted, “You’ve been busy all day. You should eat something.”

Song Qingre shook her head and went upstairs. Yan Qingqiu, on the other hand, was starving. She had spent the whole day at the exhibition and only had a sandwich with Su Xingjie for lunch. She washed her hands and sat down to eat, her eyes repeatedly drifting upstairs.

“Take some food up to her later,” Yan Qingqiu whispered. “And don’t say it’s from me. If you mess this up, you’ll have to write ten chapters a day.”

The butler shivered and nodded, carrying the food upstairs. He knocked, and Song Qingre opened the door, glancing at the tray before calling downstairs, “Thank you, Qiuqiu.”

Yan Qingqiu choked.

The butler tilted his head slightly, signaling that he hadn’t said a word.

After dinner, Yan Qingqiu returned to her room and tossed and turned in bed. First, her body felt uncomfortable—she wanted to rub her legs together. Second, she couldn’t stop thinking about Song Qingre’s expression.

She was debating whether to send a message when Song Qingre’s text suddenly came through:

[You’ve really crushed my confidence.]

Those words weighed heavily on Yan Qingqiu’s conscience.

Honestly, Song Qingre is already perfect.

Mocking a woman’s body is absolutely despicable!

—

The next day, Yan Qingqiu decided not to go to the exhibition. Since Song Qingre would be busy, and she hadn’t slept well the night before, she planned to catch up on rest at home.

As she came downstairs, she overheard the butler muttering, “Miss Song hasn’t come out since yesterday. Did something happen?”

Song Qingre hadn’t left her room all day. The butler kept sighing in the living room, and Yan Qingqiu couldn’t take it anymore. She snapped, “Have you finished writing your updates? Stop standing there sighing!”

If it weren’t for the fact that Song Qingre had eaten a little, Yan Qingqiu would’ve thought she was starving herself.

Was the blow really that heavy?

Yan Qingqiu grew increasingly worried. At noon, she showered and went to bed, wearing very little. She felt unbearably restless, rolling around under the cool breeze, tempted to strip off her clothes. She needed to ask the doctor how to alleviate this condition and when her differentiation period would arrive.

Just as she was about to send a message, the door opened. She turned her head—

Song Qingre stood there wearing only a sheer nightgown. Moonlight spilled over her, giving her skin a pearly pink glow. Her expression carried a hint of melancholy.

Yan Qingqiu’s mind immediately flashed back to that question:

You are about to differentiate into an SSS-grade omega. At this moment, your white moonlight is lying on your bed.

Question: Choose A or B.

Yan Qingqiu’s entire body tensed up. She pointed a trembling finger at Song Qingre and shouted, “What are you doing? Who said you could come in?”

“I’ve been thinking all day and night, and I’ve realized I’m far from perfect.” Song Qingre’s voice was despondent. “I’m an artist. I can’t accept my own imperfections.”

With that, she pulled out a soft measuring tape, pinching one end and giving it a sharp tug—like wielding a tiny whip. She walked towards the bed. “Come on, let’s measure again. We’ll keep measuring until you’re satisfied. I’m wearing less today, so it should be more accurate.”

No! Help!

Yan Qingqiu nearly screamed.

“Don’t be scared. We’re just measuring.”

A vivid image flashed through Yan Qingqiu’s mind:

Two women kneeling on the bed, their slender fingers gripping opposite ends of the tape. They leaned in close, necks brushing, the cool tape gliding over fragrant, porcelain skin.

Entwined. Entwined. Tangled together.

I’m done for. My body’s burning up even more now.

As Song Qingre closed the distance, Yan Qingqiu yelled:

“Wait! You’re an artist, not a model!”

“Hmm?”

“Listen to me, I’m actually very satisfied. Extremely satisfied.”

“You’re lying. Yesterday, you said I wasn’t big enough, not full enough.” Song Qingre took another step forward, sitting on the edge of the bed. The sheer fabric slipped off her shoulder.

I never said that!

Yan Qingqiu raised her hands in a panic, covering her eyes. “I was just trying to keep you from getting arrogant! I said it on purpose!”

“So you like it?”

“Yes! I love it!”

“Then why are you…” Her gaze seemed to ask, Are you scared?

Yan Qingqiu’s overheated brain instantly cleared. “Of course not! That was genuine praise from the bottom of my heart.”

Lust is lust. Cowardice is cowardice. Don’t mix them up.

“You’re perfect. You’re the most flawless alpha I’ve ever seen besides myself. You can’t let others’ words undermine your confidence. You are art.”

Song Qingre listened quietly, her dim eyes clearing, filled with laughter and something inexplicably surprising. She kept staring, and Yan Qingqiu thought she might say thank you, already feeling a little embarrassed.

But instead, she said:

“Praising me like this has moved me so much… I can barely control myself. I have to do something about it.”

“…”

No, please don’t!

Song Qingre stepped closer. Yan Qingqiu scrambled backward, her face flushing deeper red. Another inch, and she’d fall off the bed.

Song Qingre sat on the edge, just two arm-lengths away, taking in Yan Qingqiu’s feverish, pinkened state.

“Are you in heat?” she asked. “You look like you’re burning up.”

Let me help you.