Remarriage (1v1, H) - 16
Mid-autumn air still carried summer’s memory, but Wang Chong’s layers were thick; her frantic pats felt like kitten paws on his thigh.
He looked down at the small woman kneeling between his knees, lips stretched around his c0ck, and sneered at the Lu clan’s hypocrisy.
They played pious while stuffing smut into bridal sleeves.
Yet they had raised her: spotless, terrified of a single dirty page.
He fed the Lus smiles and banquets only because this girl carried a drop of the dead woman’s bl00d.
One son with those eyes, that mouth, and he could almost pretend the grave had given her back.
If the ghost ever learned what he’d done, she would rise up swinging a ruler.
Lu Xiniang kept her eyes shut.
She had no map for this.
On her own wedding night she had barely glanced at the painted scrolls before Cui-shi whisked them away: “Leave bedroom arts to your husband; only brothel girls study pictures.”
Now the husband was Chong-ge’er, and the picture was real, scalding, pulsing against her tongue.
Her jaw ached; saliva pooled.
A clumsy flick of her tongue (meant to ease the soreness) dragged along the vein and nearly undid him.
The shaft jerked hard; she startled, tried to rear back.
His palm locked her in place.
“Still.”
Then, softer, “Suck.”
She froze.
That slit had pissed; she had wiped it for Wang Zhi on his sickbed, nose wrinkled, duty heavier than disgust.
Swallow?
Never.
Her golden boy had lost his mind.
Lu Xiniang locked her jaw, tears brimming.
Wang Chong nudged her head twice, shallow thrusts that only teased him.
Still not enough.
With a frustrated growl he let go.
She jerked back, gasping.
His c0ck glistened with her spit, angry and wet.
She stared one horrified heartbeat, then whipped her face away.
Before she could scramble clear, his long arm hooked her waist and hauled her astride his lap.
Her thighs splayed wide, skirts rucked to her hips.
His fingers slipped beneath the last scrap of silk, tracing her pvssy through damp linen.
She knew exactly what he wanted.
In a moving carriage.
The word burst out before she could cage it:
“Outrageous!”
The moment it left her lips she froze.
He was Yuexiang’s husband.
Aunt scolding nephew—how to explain that?
He studied her, eyes narrowed, searching.
She slid off his knees, voice trembling.
“Don’t curse me for speaking out of turn.
The Lu clan may be poor, but we are not the brothel you painted.
And we… husband and wife… should not shame each other.”
Pain flickered across his sharp features.
He reached out, gentle now, smoothing a loose strand behind her ear, straightening her sleeve.
“Your husband was reckless,” he murmured.
Then he turned to the window, lips pressed thin.
At the mansion gate he helped her down.
Three steps inside he said, “Go back to Linhui. Eat without me.”
He strode off toward the quiet northeast corner—toward the courtyard that had once been hers, now nothing but bamboo.
Lu Xiniang watched his retreating back until the dusk swallowed him.