Lyra quickly went upstairs to get something.
By the time the door opened again, Morris Jackson had already changed into a formal suit.
A deep-blue, vertically-striped three-piece suit, white shirt underneath, cufflinks and tie clip all in place, and his hair meticulously groomed—like a noble young master from a bygone era.
Graceful, aloof, and refined.
As he turned and walked in, he said, "Come in."
Lyra followed him in a daze.
The suite had already been cleaned up, and from the angle where she was standing, she could see the neatly made bed inside. The scene of last night's passion had been tidied up.
Looking at that bed, Lyra's cheeks felt a little hot.
Last night, on that bed, she and Morris Jackson...
The only thing out of the ordinary about the night was the duration; their lovemaking was quite standard in other respects. And she never expected the powerful business tycoon Morris Jackson to be so gentle in bed...
"Lyra."
Hearing her name called by Morris, she immediately responded, "I'm here."
Meeting his inquisitive gaze, he had no expression but wasn't cold when looking at her, and softly reminded her, "Why are your cheeks so red?"
Upon hearing that-
Lyra: "..."
!!!
"Is something wrong with your body?" he asked.
She made up an excuse: "Maybe I walked too fast up and down the stairs, and it made me hot."
Morris asked her, "Do you need a drink of water?"
Lyra unconsciously nodded.
Morris said, "Pour it yourself."
Lyra: "..."
On her trip to retrieve the item, she had already thought of her lines for the conversation that would follow.
If he said—What happened last night was an accident.
She would reply—Uncle, I swear, I won't breathe a word about what happened, I'll keep it to myself.
If he asked—Do you need any compensation?
She would reply—No, we're both adults, and we should take responsibility for ourselves.
Such well-behaved and excellent lines, she thought, would certainly greatly please Morris Jackson.
But so far, he hadn't even mentioned last night's events at all.
Lyra's anxiety was growing.
"Give me the thing," Morris said, reaching out a hand.
Lyra dutifully handed over the item she had collected from the front desk to Morris. After handing it to him, she immediately asked, "Uncle, I've brought up the item you asked for and handed it to you. Can I leave now?"
She looked up to see Morris handing her the bag, "Hold this."
Lyra did not accept it, "But you asked me to bring this to you."
Morris loosened his tie around his wrist and neck, gently reminding her, "Lyra, I'm only seven years older than you, so calling me 'uncle' as a reverential form of address is unnecessary."
Lyra slipped up and said before thinking, "But you're my elder, and rounding 'older by seven years' still means quite a bit older."
The words had barely left her mouth when Lyra sensed Morris's dark, deep gaze on her.
His gaze made Lyra feel oppressed, and she suddenly panicked, cursing her loose tongue. Was she just indirectly calling Morris old?
But he's only thirty, it's just that compared to her age, he's a bit older.
As her thoughts raced, the reality hit her.
"Lyra," he called.
"Yes," she obediently responded.
Morris averted his gaze, loosened his collar again, and in a casual tone, asked, "Do you think I'm very old?"
Although he's older, his stamina is impressive.
For some unknown reason, Lyra felt her knees go weak.
Remembering the light brown bruises on her knees when she took a bath this morning, Lyra turned her head to the side, trying her best to defend herself, "No, Uncle, you are in your prime, the most charming age."
Morris's expression finally improved.