Remarriage (1v1, H) - 11
Lu Xiniang’s n1pples throbbed, raw from last night’s mauling.
Back then she had still been half-dazed, riding the impossible dream; Chong-ge’er had reeked of wine, c0ck drunk and merciless.
Now they were both stone-cold sober.
She clutched his collar, voice trembling.
“My body’s sore. Please, not again.”
Wang Chong ignored the plea.
He nuzzled the hollow beneath her ear.
“What scent are you wearing today?”
She shook her head.
The fashionable ladies drenched themselves in rose-water; the smell turned her stomach.
She had waved Chunmei away when the girl tried to dust her with it.
His hands were already peeling her shift.
No drawers to slow him; in moments she lay bare.
She crossed her arms over her br3asts, a flimsy shield against his stare.
He let her hide, but his eyes never left her skin.
Heat crawled from her cheeks to her throat.
She glared through the blush, lips bitten pink.
He searched her face for cracks.
Yuexiang had once lived under his foster-mother’s roof; the old woman had teased, when they were children, about “marrying kin to kin.”
She could never have guessed the girl’s clan had other plans.
Yet ever since dawn this bride had acted strange (coy glances, startled flinches).
If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the soul inside that pretty shell had changed.
The real Yuexiang was timid, yes, but never this wanton.
He ought to feel disgust, as he had moments ago.
Instead lust coiled tighter.
First taste of pvssy did that to a man.
The woman he truly wanted was three years in the ground.
If she still breathed, he would never have dared drag her to Xiangcheng, lock the yamen gates, and fvck her day and night until she wept for mercy.
She would have cursed him for a beast, for trampling every law of heaven.
Anything, anything, would be better than the cold space where her voice used to be.
He leaned in until his breath scorched her lips.
“Move your hands,” he said.
“Let me see what’s mine.”
He pinned her beneath him, peeled her arms away as if they were silk ribbons, and swallowed one aching n1pple.
Teeth grazed the tender bud, tongue flicking until sparks shot straight to her cl!t.
His other hand dragged her thighs apart.
“No, Chong-ge’er, it really hurts; the ointment’s still inside,” she sobbed, twisting against him.
He answered only with ragged breath against her br3ast.
Men, it seemed, were born knowing how to torment a tit.
His tongue lashed the stiff peak while his calloused palm swept slow circles over her belly, coaxing shivers from her skin.
She tried to scoot away; he freed his c0ck from his drawers and wedged the scalding length between her thighs.
She clamped shut on instinct.
Perfect—he groaned, brows knotted, and hauled her higher until the blunt head kissed her slick folds.
She could feel it nudging, searching, trying to burrow into the puffy seam.
Worse: she was wet.
The careful ointment had melted, mingling with fresh honey that glued her petals together and now painted his shaft.
Tears jewelled her lashes.
She buried her face in his shoulder, fingers clawing his back.
The boy she’d bandaged and bragged about (top of the palace exam, pride of her heart) was grinding his c0ck against the pvssy that had once been her own niece’s.
He showed a shred of mercy: no thrust, only a slow drag up and down her slit, coating himself in her shame.
Each pass dragged more slick from her cunt; it dripped over his balls, strung between them like spider silk.
His c0ck swelled, veins livid, furious at being denied.
When the fat crown wedged her open an inch, pain lanced through her.
She whimpered; he froze, jaw clenched, and forced himself back.
Before she could sag in relief, he seized her wrist and wrapped her trembling fingers around his c0ck.
“Stroke me.”
One hand couldn’t close the circle.
The shaft was slick with both their messes.
He folded his larger grip over hers and pumped, ruthless, until her wrist burned.
At last he took over, three hard jerks, and erupted.
Thick ropes of come striped her belly and pooled in her palm.
He snagged something from the bed—her br3ast-band—and wiped them clean, then tossed the ruined silk to the floor.
“Nap,” he muttered, and rolled away.
Lu Xiniang stared at the damp cloth, only now recognising it.
Her binder, once snow-white, now carried both their scents.