Caught in the act, Mortir Quincy wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. "The massage is more effective up close."
Holly Winslow: "..."
’Hmph. He sounds so prim and proper, but everything he does is so shaless.’
She irritably slapped his hand away. "Says who?"
"Master Quincy," Mortir Quincy shalessly dubbed himself.
Holly Winslow: "..."
She felt his hand reach the clasp of her bra. A mont later, it ca undone. She: "..."
She quickly scooted away from him. "Forget the massage. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow."
His wife knew exactly what he was implying. Mortir Quincy raised an eyebrow, then began to undress, preparing for so "exercise."
Holly Winslow: "..."
In the end, she couldn’t escape their two-person exercise.
Thanks to that "massage" from Mortir Quincy, Holly Winslow’s back was successfully "broken." The next day in class, her lower back ached in waves, and she kept kneading it from ti to ti.
The dean of students beside her glanced at her several tis. When their eyes t by chance, it felt as though everything was understood without a word.
When class ended, the dean told her to get so rest. She: "..."
She now held a "grudge" against Quincy the Beast.
At noon, when Mortir Quincy called and his wife didn’t pick up, he was self-aware enough to pinpoint his mistake. He’d probably gone overboard last night.
He was just about to go inside to find his darling wife when she ca out holding a book, looking "furious." She then "fiercely" declared, "I want barbecue. The five-star kind."
’That fiercely cute look of hers is so damn adorable.’
Mortir Quincy’s eyes curved in a smile. He reached out to take her book, then took her small hand in his large one. "We can eat anything you want, as long as my wife enjoys it."
Seeing that he understood, Holly Winslow’s "anger" subsided. She held up a finger, pushing her luck a little by adding one more thing. "And a pint of ice cream."
’It was April, and the weather was mild. For so reason, she was craving ice cream.’
Mortir Quincy raised an eyebrow, not indulging her in the slightest. "Does my wife want a lecture? Or so ’dostic abuse’?"
Holly Winslow, who had pushed her luck: "..."
She pouted and tried to bargain, "Just one bite. A tiny one."
"Not even a tiny bite. Unless we heat it up." A little sche ford in Mortir Quincy’s mind as his eyes curved upward.
’Heated?’
Holly Winslow: "..."
’Heat up ice cream?’
’Only this guy could co up with sothing so ridiculous.’
’Has studying turned his brain to mush?’
She bared her teeth, challenging him. "Fine, you heat it up for . If you can’t, I’ll punch you." She brandished a small fist.
"Okay."
Mortir Quincy indulged her, leading her to a nearby convenience store where he bought her favorite ice cream bar. Then, as she watched, he took a huge bite. He noticed his wife’s mouth had opened wide right along with his.
He nearly burst out laughing.
Holly Winslow still didn’t understand what he was doing. She huffed, "You’re eating it yourself!"
The next mont, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. To her shock and astonishnt, a wave of strawberry-flavored "warm ice cream" flooded her mouth.
She: "..."
’Damn that Mortir Quincy.’
’If I’d known this was his idea of ’heating it up,’ I never would have said that.’
Her face flushed red. She shoved him away and fled the scene as if escaping a famine.
Mortir Quincy followed with long strides, deliberately teasing her. "Still want to eat so?"
"Eat you, my foot, Quincy the Puppy! Get lost, get lost, get lost!" Holly Winslow shot him a glare. ’At this mont, I don’t want a husband anymore.’ She glanced around and spotted a nearby trash can.
’Throw him away.’
She "hmphed," then dragged Mortir Quincy over to the trash can. Once he was standing beside it, she ordered, "Quincy the Puppy, don’t move. You can just cool off here."
Mortir Quincy glanced at the trash can. "..."
A second later, he broke into a series of low chuckles. Grabbing Holly Winslow’s hand as she tried to walk away, he wheedled, "Honey, won’t you pick back up?"
’This piece of "trash" is actually quite handso.’
Holly Winslow found she was a bit reluctant to throw him away. She lifted her chin in "disdain." "No. If I take you ho, you won’t even do any work."
Mortir Quincy shrugged innocently, his attitude impeccable. "I work hard every night."
He paused before adding, "I’ve just been a little lazy recently. I promise I’ll make up for it."
As his wife, Holly Winslow knew exactly what he planned to "make up for."
She gave him a light kick and pointed at him. "Don’t move! You just stay here in the cold. Whoever wants you can have you. I don’t want you anymore." As she spoke, she glanced at the ice cream bar in his hand.
Her eyes shifted. She ducked her head, planning to snatch a bite and make a run for it, but a large hand imdiately held her head in place. She: "..."
’The downside of being married for so many years... he can predict my every move.’
Mortir Quincy casually tossed the ice cream bar into the trash can. He looked at his wife and said, "I taste better than ice cream. Eat instead."
Holly Winslow: "..."
’What the hell kind of cringey pickup line was that?’
She bared her teeth "fiercely." "You think you taste better than a three-fifty ice cream bar?"
"I don’t know about tasting good, but I know I can ’perform’," Mortir Quincy’s lines grew increasingly brazen.
Holly Winslow was choked speechless. She decided it was ti for so dostic education, putting on an air of wifely authority as she lectured him, "You’ve got too much money, don’t you? We’re about to be so poor we can’t even put food on the table, and you’re just throwing away a three-fifty ice cream bar? Are you the son of so billionaire?"
She paused, trying to recall lines from a TV drama. "Why do I ’scrimp and save’ every day? It’s for this family! To give this family a better life!"
"You buy a three-fifty ice cream bar on a whim, while I have to think long and hard before buying even a single bottle of water!" As she said this, she pretended to start crying.
Holly Winslow was telling a bold-faced lie. She didn’t scrimp and save in the slightest. At most, she had bought one or two fewer handbags than she wanted.
Getting an earful from his wife only amused Mortir Quincy. The more he looked at her, the more adorable he found her.
’So adorable, I want to have a baby with her right now.’
If Holly Winslow knew what he was thinking, she would have definitely rolled her eyes at him.
A nearby cleaning lady had been watching their "argunt." Hearing this part, she felt the handso young man was indeed in the wrong. ’Sigh,’ she thought, ’handso young n these days are so unreliable.’
She couldn’t help but chi in, "A relationship takes two people to manage. Young man, you should be more frugal. Your girlfriend..."
Before she could finish, the tall, handso young man before her corrected, "She’s my wife."
The lady paused for a second. "Oh, your wife! Well, if you’re married, you have even more reason to be frugal. Your wife is scrimping and saving for the good of your family."
Holly Winslow felt a pang of guilt. If anyone was frugal, it was Mortir Quincy, not her. Still, seeing the flirtatious Mortir get "scolded," she shook her head smugly.
Having been "scolded," Mortir Quincy promised, "Honey, I won’t do it again. I’ll definitely scrimp and save to earn money for our baby’s formula."
"I’ll be sure to work hard." At making a baby.
Holly Winslow: "..."
’Sohow, she felt like that scoundrel hadn’t finished his sentence.’
After lunch, they still had an hour left for a midday nap, so the two returned to their hotel.
Holly Winslow sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned to Mortir Quincy. When he leaned down, she unapologetically pinched his cheek. "Quincy the Puppy, you owed that."
After letting her get her pinch in, Mortir Quincy grabbed her waist with both hands and pulled her onto his lap. "You’ve had your pinch," he said roguishly. "Now it’s ti for so kisses."
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