Chapter 21 Breaking through the Sorrow

Maggie's entire body was flushed with a peachy hue, sweat mixed with a little sperm dampening a few strands of her dark hair, nestled in the hollow of her collarbone.
Harold didn't look much, as the dark-colored sofa served as a backdrop for her exquisite and luminous body, radiating a pearl-like glow.
The scene's impact was too intense, incredibly intoxicating.
But Maggie was panting, clearly unable to handle a second round.
He tossed aside the handkerchief and picked up his fallen trousers from the floor, turning his back to fasten his belt. "Maggie, you need to freshen up."
"I..." her voice was slightly hoarse, "I'm sore and can't get up."
Harold chuckled softly as if amused, without a second thought, he lifted her up from the sofa. She was light as a feather, with a petite frame and only enough fat in the right places.
No wonder she couldn't withstand prolonged sessions.
The restroom in the lounge was spacious, with a small circular bathtub attached to the bottom. When hot water was poured, the lights automatically lit up, creating a soft and romantic atmosphere.
Maggie leaned against the edge of the tub, the lights illuminating the scene. She looked up at him, the man shirtless, his muscles well-defined and powerful, his waist and hips narrow yet fierce, firm and strong.
The only flaw was a large scar on his lower left back, about the size of a bowl burn, grotesque and terrifying. Maggie accidentally touched it once.
The impact of the thrusts made her moans shatter, but she could still feel the rough texture of the scar.
Harold grabbed a bottle of shampoo from the vanity.
The smell of semen resembled chestnut blossoms, unpleasant and sticky on her hair, not easily rinsed away with plain water.
Maggie blinked. "Aren't you going to wash?"
He remained unfazed, spreading the shampoo onto his hands.
The foam from the shampoo was in her hair, "I got it all over you. What am I washing for?"
She lowered her head and didn't say a word.
When it came to taking care of people, Harold was not meticulous, but he was considered thorough. Before he became the head of the municipal government, he was the president's chief secretary and also performed daily menial tasks.
At this moment, he didn't have any pretenses, and Maggie couldn't bear it either. His hand soaked in the water and reached between her legs, intending to help her clean her secret place.
Just as he touched the swollen labia, Maggie hurriedly grasped his wrist with both hands, too shy to look up. "I can do it myself."
A shallow smile line appeared in the deep corner of Harold's eyes. "Don't be shy. Has no one ever washed you before?"
Maggie honestly shook her head. "No."
He frowned, a hint of suspicion flashed in his eyes. Ignoring her delicate pushes, he slowly inserted a finger into her secret place. Maggie bit her lip and let out a muffled moan.
The soft flesh tightly wrapped around his finger, sucking it in, only after experiencing the sensation of being entwined by this flesh did he truly understand the intoxicating feeling. Harold's voice was hoarse and thick, "Don't make a sound."
Maggie truly dared not make a sound, soaking in the tub, wet and dripping, like a curly-haired cat drenched in water, allowing him to gently stir his fingers and bring out a few strands of sticky liquid from her secret place.
At some point, their eyes suddenly met, and Harold couldn't bear it any longer. A boiling heat surged up, and he fiercely kissed her lips.
The force of the kiss was wild, scorching and irresistible, leaving no way to escape.
Maggie wanted to cry. She had been married to Matt for a year and two months, and the only kiss they had was at their wedding, a mere touch of lips purely for a photo.
She didn't feel too regretful about it, but her heart trembled as if a sharp blade had cut through the accumulated haze.
"The water is cold." Just as desire erupted again, Harold's self-control kicked in, abruptly stopping and returning to the room to put on his shirt.
Maggie came out wrapped in a towel, fumbling to find her clothes and underwear.
Harold fastened his tie and asked, "Stay, or shall I take you back?"
Also driven by lust, once reminded, Maggie remembered that Ophelia had invited her to dinner.
She dressed up quickly and said she would stay.
Harold lit a cigarette. In the dim light, his still, broad figure was imposing. "You're in charge here. Does that include socializing?"
Maggie was taken aback. "What socializing?"
She recalled the cultural night a few days ago and decisively shook her head. "The TV station is very sensitive now. I'm not here for business. I'm helping a friend out."
Harold fell silent for a moment, picked up his wristwatch from the table, a low-key A. Lange & Söhne men's watch, and put it on. "I'll wait for you for half an hour. If you don't show up, I'll leave too."
There was a clock hanging on the wall, and Maggie glanced at it. She had almost spent two hours here with him.
Ophelia must be going insane with worry.
She stepped out of the door ahead. The club exuded an exquisite atmosphere everywhere, and the soundproofing was surprisingly good.
Just now, when she knocked on the door, no one responded in the resting room. At this moment, medical staff arrived, carrying a stretcher and taking away a fainting man from inside.
No matter how well the manager did, there was always some noise and commotion. Maggie, who is next door, didn't hear a single sound.
Before she turned downstairs, she saw Harold coming out of the lounge, talking on the phone. He still looked casual and tall, but his previously neatly ironed shirt had a few creases that couldn't be restored due to her squeezing.
There were also two missing buttons.
He glanced at her as well, burning gaze, but before walking a few steps, he was stopped by someone coming out of a big room. The person seemed drunk, too enthusiastic, waving and inviting him to come in.
Harold didn't refuse.
Maggie hurriedly walked, luckily she wasn't a familiar face in the club and went backstage to change her clothes first.
There were two red marks on her chest were bitten by Harold. Ophelia, a woman who had gone through several failed marriages, could easily see the reason.
Maggie covered herself up tightly to avoid unnecessary explanations.