Chapter 1560: Chapter 1560: A Waist to Be Grasped with a Handful
Another gust of night wind blew past, slicing across their faces like razor blades.
The surroundings were eerily quiet—so quiet that one could hear their own rapid breathing.
Smoke curled around them, yet the nicotine-filled aroma of the cigarette seemed ineffective in alleviating the headache.
“I’m serious, Brother Rowan, you don’t look so good. Feeling unwell? Or is it… are you reluctant? If you’re really not ready, I’ll slow down later. After all, we’re just having fun. Winning or losing doesn’t matter to anyone.”
Wayland Pierson said this lightly, but then sneakily added some provocation.
He knew Jesse Rowan well—young and proud men couldn’t stand being taunted.
Sure enough, Jesse Rowan cast him a frosty glance, his tone sharp: “Don’t start crying if you lose.”
“Haha, crying’s no big deal anyway,” Wayland laughed, “Brother Rowan, this Cici is still a senior in college, works part-time as a model. I haven’t touched her; according to the agency, she’s still a virgin. Look, I’m thinking about you here—I wouldn’t let our Brother Rowan suffer a loss.”
“What’s so great about virgins? They’re like dead fish in bed.”
“Huh? Not your thing? Shall I get another one?” Wayland grinned shamelessly.
Jesse Rowan glanced at the distant outline of the mountains and took another drag of his cigarette.
The cigarette was already half-burned, its glowing tip flickering brightly in the darkness.
After a long pause, he strode off toward a secluded spot and pulled out his phone to make a call to Joan Harry.
“What are you doing?” he said flatly.
Joan Harry was sitting on her bed, cradling a book. “Reading.”
“What’s so great about books? Is reading the only thing you know how to do? What a bookworm!”
“I’m not interested in racing; go have your fun. I’m not going to watch.”
“Did I tell you to come watch?”
Joan Harry paused for a moment. “Hmm, I guess I thought too much. It’s late; I’ll read a bit more and then go to sleep. Don’t call me again.”
“Joan Harry, your attitude sucks.”
“Think whatever you like.” Joan Harry hung up, unwilling to argue further with Jesse Rowan.
Over time, she had come to realize that, despite being only two years younger, Jesse Rowan could be remarkably immature in some ways.
For example, forcing her to smile.
But when it came to him, she simply couldn’t muster a smile.
Thinking of this, Joan Harry furrowed her brow, her mood souring to the point where even reading lost its appeal. She shut off the lamp and pulled the blanket over herself.
Jesse Rowan, after being hung up on by Joan Harry, was in an increasingly foul mood—it felt like the oppressive sky before a fierce storm.
His face was ashen and looked terrible.
Not far away, Wayland Pierson acted like he was watching a show, popping raisins into his mouth and chewing loudly.
Could this be the legendary inner conflict of Jesse Rowan? Wayland couldn’t quite figure it out.
Back abroad, after all the times they’d played around, he’d never seen Jesse Rowan like this.
If he was reluctant, it didn’t really show.
If he was ready to let go, then why hadn’t he hit the track already?
Wayland found it baffling; Jesse Rowan’s thoughts weren’t easy to decipher.
But then again, there wasn’t much need to guess—he knew Jesse would stick to his word. If he really lost, he’d definitely hand over the woman for the night.
Just the thought of that woman’s slender waist, soft enough to hold with one hand, sent a jolt through his body.
If she were in bed—what kind of fiery ecstasy would that be?
No wonder Jesse Rowan looked so absent-minded.
Tsk tsk.
Wayland Pierson tossed another handful of raisins into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated effort, his gaze lingering on Jesse Rowan in the distance.
Jesse stood with his back to him, dressed casually yet sharp, his tall and lean figure lit faintly by the weak light, which stretched his shadow long across the ground.