Chapter 135: The Sight Of You

“Keep playing with them,” she repeated, voice low and commanding, hips beginning a slow roll. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

He obeyed.

His hands were trembling but his grip was sure, thumbs circling her nipples in the rhythm she had taught him, kneading the soft weight of her breasts with careful hands while she moved above him in long, unhurried strokes that dragged a sound out of him he had never made before in his life.

It was not a dignified sound.

Bai Yue smiled at him like it was the best thing she had ever heard.

“There,” she murmured. “There you are.”

She braced her palms flat on his chest and found her pace, the slow roll of her hips deepening into something more searching.

She was wet, incredibly so, slick heat gripping him with every downward press, and Yàn Shū’s fingers tightened on her breasts purely on instinct, squeezing harder than he meant to.

She made a sound low in her throat and her hips snapped forward.

“Again,” she said. “Harder.”

“I don’t want to hurt—”

“You won’t.” Her amethyst eyes held his, dark and steady. “Trust me. You never hurt me.”

He squeezed again, thumbs pressing into the stiff peaks, and she rewarded him with a roll of her hips so perfectly angled that his back arched off the furs and his voice cracked on a broken, breathless oh.

“You feel it,” she observed, more than asked. Her hair was falling forward around them, a curtain of dark silk, and she looked devastating above him, flushed and unselfconscious and entirely in command of both of them.

“Yes,” he managed. His voice was wrecked. He was very proud that he had managed the single syllable.

She moved faster.

Yàn Shū’s hands slid from her breasts to her waist, instinct overriding shyness, pulling her down harder onto him as his hips began to lift to meet her. The sound of it filled the small space, her breath quickening above him, his own escaping in short, helpless bursts.

“Good,” she breathed. “Just like that. Keep going.”

His glasses had been lost somewhere in the furs. Without them the world was slightly softer, slightly blurred at the edges, but her face above him was perfectly clear.

He could see every micro-expression, the way her brow drew together when he rolled his hips at the right angle, the way her lips parted when he found something that made her catch her breath.

He filed all of it away. Instinctive, obsessive, scholarly to the last.

“You’re thinking,” she accused, voice unsteady now.

“I’m—” He tried to gather words. Failed. “I’m noticing.”

“Noticing what?”

“You.” He pressed up into her, slow and deep, and watched her eyes flutter. “The way you look when you feel something good. I want to remember it.”

Bai Yue stared down at him for a moment.

Then she leaned forward and kissed him, before sitting back up and resuming her pace with something considerably more urgent in it.

“Sweet thing,” she muttered, and the fondness in it made his chest ache worse than anything else she had done to him.

He pulled her down harder. She made a sharp sound, pleased and breathless, and braced her hands on his chest again, using the leverage to drive herself down onto him in a rhythm that left no room for thought or embarrassment or anything except the wet drag of heat and the sounds she was making above him.

He could feel the moment she was close. Her breathing changed, caught, and her hips lost their even rhythm. He reached up and pressed his thumbs to her nipples again, rolling them firmly the way she had liked before, and she shuddered hard and her thighs gripped him like a vice.

“Don’t stop,” she said. Her voice was strained now, edges fraying. “Yàn Shū, don’t—”

“I’m not stopping,” he said.

He sat up.

She made a startled sound as his arms wrapped around her back, pulling her against his chest, and then he was pressing deep and holding there and mouthing at the curve of her shoulder. All of this happened while his hands moved down to grip her hips and guide her in short, grinding circles.

She let out a sound that was nearly a sob.

Then her whole body pulled taut.

The sound she made when she came was quiet. Not the dramatic cry he had privately, theoretically imagined. It was breathless and low, a broken exhale of his name that he felt against his neck where her face was pressed, her hands clutching at his back, her hips rolling and rolling through the aftershocks while he held her and did not let go.

He followed her over the edge only a moment later with his face buried in her hair and her name in his throat. He pressed as deep as he could go, thinking her name and his own overwhelming, absurd gratitude, and the word cub, and ours.

They stayed tangled together for a long time afterward, neither of them moving, the room warm and quiet around them.

Eventually Bai Yue exhaled. A long, satisfied sound that vibrated against his collarbone.

“Scholar,” she said.

“Yes,” he said into her hair.

“You’re better at that than you think you are.”

He smiled. He was fairly sure it was very wide and fairly sure he didn’t care. “I had an excellent teacher.”

She made a sound that was trying to be dismissive but was actually a little pleased. “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not smug. I am simply noting the data.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You kissed me first.”

She laughed, and pulled back enough to look at his face. Her hair was a disaster. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked, he thought, like someone who had been thoroughly pleased and was quietly triumphant about it.

His chest hurt with how much he liked her.

She reached up and tucked a strand of his hair back from his face, fingers light and sure. He could feel her still warm against him, still close, and he wanted, with a sudden fierce certainty, to keep this. Exactly this.

“Do you think it worked?” he asked, voice soft.

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