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He doesn’t sleep. Hasn’t slept all night.
It’s not the rustle of curtains or the soft dawn sunlight, its rays threading golden filaments into his chambers. Their chambers.
Neither the ache in his body from the exhausting rituals of the grand celebration, nor the echoes of gongs, myriad instruments, and the crowd’s cries reverberating endlessly in his mind—these aren’t the cause of his sleeplessness. And he knows it.
His gaze keeps drifting to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, where neatly folded crimson robes, adorned yesterday, lie in wait. A golden dragon. It nestles on scarlet silk, guarding the fragile, almost translucent, lifelike golden phoenix embroidered on the sleeve of that same hanfu. Yesterday, there was no chance to watch the embroidery closely, but now, as amber rays drip onto the intricate patterns, he notices: the thread binding dragon and phoenix doesn’t break for even an inch. Symbolic.
He glances at it to reassure himself, once again, that this isn’t a dream.
His fingertips still carry the warmth and silken smoothness of her body, just as the rumpled sheets do. And it drives him mad. So much so that he can’t close his eyes for even a moment—lest he lose, lest he shatter, this fragile bliss of the night before.
He didn’t notice when morning arrived. The maids aren’t rushing to disturb their masters’ peace, and it’s unlikely they will today. They won’t come in. They know. Everyone knows this morning is different. The first. Special.
She sleeps sweetly on her side, nearly free of the covers, softly snoring like a little kitten. Her hair still holds the scent of lotus in the strands he unraveled last night, under the dim glow of candles, methodically removing each hairpin with his own fingers. He leans closer to breathe in that weightless fragrance. The tip of his nose brushes the careless locks splayed across the pillow, and he hears her steady breathing. The scent of lotus pierces him from head to toe, unleashing a torrent of still-fresh memories, and his insides clench in that same almost unbearable yearning.
She tossed and turned in the night. The blanket slipped down, baring her back. Delicate, fragile, like porcelain. His gaze lingers on a reddish mark on her shoulder—a tiny imprint left by his lips. The memory stirs the scent of medicinal herbs, spicy and tart, soaked into every cell of her skin. And how she shivered yesterday, letting out a soft moan when he inhaled that scent along with her skin, pressing himself to her shoulder.
Lower, where the blanket only half-covers her thigh, the images flare even brighter in his mind. How her leg wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and she exhaled his name almost soundlessly—for the first time without titles or formality.
His eyes shift to her hand, resting softly on the pillow, fingers slightly curled. One fleeting glance, and his face flushes crimson; he bites his lip almost to the point of blood, torn between suppressing or dissolving in the memory. Her palm, and—damn it—his cock, so perfectly matched.
He clenches his fists, nails nearly piercing his palms, but it’s not enough. Inside, everything is already roiling. He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to remember—he wants to take, to feel, to confirm again that she’s truly his. He leans forward. Reaches toward her shoulder. Almost touches, but—if he feels her skin now, he won’t hold back. No. He can’t. Not now, don’t touch, don’t you dare. Not when she’s so vulnerable, and he wants her so badly.
He pulls his hand back and simply watches her breathing rhythmically lift the blanket. A thought nags at him: do her breasts still hold the cool thrill of the wet trails his tongue left yesterday? A ray of sunlight creeps onto her collarbone—and he’s almost jealous that he wasn’t granted the right of first touch.
And she feels it all.
She never wakes abruptly. Her consciousness—stubborn, cautious—dislikes being disturbed. But now, even in her sleep, she senses that hungry gaze, that warmth clinging to her.
He doesn’t dare wake her but moves closer, unable to bear the torturous distance any longer. Slowly, almost reverently, he lies beside her and wraps his arm around her waist, allowing himself exactly as much as he thinks she’d permit. Barely touching, he lets his fingers rest on her stomach.
The scent of lotus envelops his face. Her back presses against his chest, and from this simple, longed-for contact, a shiver runs down his spine. He closes his eyes to cope with this slow enchantment, but the hunger in his chest only grows: she’s here. Under his hand. So small, warm, soft… Real. Unable to resist the pull, his hand tightens slightly, more insistently than before.
He doesn’t expect a response.
But she responds—not with words, not with her hands. With her body.
Her back arches slightly, pressing even closer to him. As if she’d been waiting, enduring, for him to finally take a step forward. Before he can process it, she moves further: her hips shift, bare skin clinging to his. Deliberately slow, as if testing his limits. She moves as though she knows: he’ll burn, but he won’t retreat.
His breath falters as she rubs her thigh against his leg. All the blood drains from his head, rushing downward, to where she shamelessly presses her buttocks.
He was only holding her. Only wanted to press close, breathe her scent, be near… And he lied to himself so desperately he almost believed it. But his body—traitor—believed none of it.
And she—she’s not one to let him deceive himself. As if she hears every dirty, shameless thought—and aims straight for the point where he can’t take an ounce more.
A low groan escapes his lips, lost somewhere in her hair. Oh, gods, her hair and its scent, reviving every memory and sensation of the night before. He tries to shut his eyes, to restrain himself, to suppress the pulsing arousal pressing ever more boldly against her buttocks—betraying him completely. This can’t happen. She’s… asleep?
He thinks she’s asleep. He hopes she’s asleep. It’s the only thing keeping him in check. Until the moment his fingers feel a slight movement.
Her hand.
It touches him.
Warm, soft fingers, as if waking from the same languor vibrating between them, find his hand, glide over it. His breath catches as her fingers suddenly tighten.
Damn it.
She begins to guide his hand slowly. Pushing, directing. Their intertwined hands slide over her body, up her stomach, toward her chest. A caress? No. An invitation? Perhaps. A demand? Exactly. And he obeys it willingly.
Heat surges down his spine. He bites his lip, feeling his teeth sink painfully into flesh, but he can’t stop. Her small, soft breast fits perfectly in his palm, and he allows himself, swallowing hard, to brush his fingertips over her nipple. Madness. His fingers circle the areola teasingly, gently squeezing her nipple.
Her response is immediate.
No matter how much she wants to lead this game, her body can’t lie. And he feels every micro-reaction. Every instinctive thrust of her hips seeking support. Every stifled, escaping sigh. His fingers feel like they’re under electric current: trembling, burning, sparking, but never ceasing to caress her breast. From this one motion alone—from her tension, her silent “I want”—he’s nearly consumed. Consumed by the desire for even greater closeness, by the closeness of her nakedness and the nakedness of his desire.
She won’t stop at her breast. Of course not. Everything she undertakes, she perfects to its logical end. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be her.
Her fingers guide his further, lower, more shamelessly. She pulls his hand from her breast, smoothly tracing it along her slender stomach, outlining every curve of her body. This sweet torture drives him to the edge, and he doesn’t know how to endure another second. But mercy? She never promised it. The blanket, only partially concealing her body, becomes the last obstacle, crumbling under their mutual hunger. And when she guides his fingers to her crotch, he knows: this is the end. His. Absolute.
Vixen, shameless woman. Tormentor, enchantress. His life, his ruin, his obsession.
She twists him around her finger—she knows she can. His fingers pause before she continues to pleasure herself, as if his hand is merely her tool. A toy to control. She moves herself, guiding him, showing—like this. She knows exactly which points to press to please herself. She carefully directs his fingertips to her clit, massaging the delicate skin with slow, deliberate circles. His hand is just a conduit, but he can’t help losing his mind over the wetness, the soft flesh under his fingers, and the way she clenches her thighs in pleasure, rubbing her buttocks against his painfully taut cock. And when a stifled moan escapes her lips, he breaks, seizing control.
He envelops her entirely. With his hand, his body, his attention. He caresses her as if playing the most fragile string, afraid to disrupt its sound—yet coaxing the highest, tenderest note. His lips press to her shoulder. A hot, obsessive kiss. Then another. Higher, stronger, more desired. His fingers glide between her folds, spreading her wetness, slipping inside, grazing her most sensitive spots. Her body writhes in an intricate dance, and he’s the captivated audience of this mesmerizing performance. The scent of her skin fills his lungs to the point of dizziness. Herbs, medicine, and something impossibly feminine that heals his every wound. And when she begins to tremble in his hand, her muscles rhythmically contracting, he presses into her harder. He doesn’t hold back. His teeth find their place at the curve of her neck, leaving a bold, sensual bite, a long-awaited mark: you’re mine.
You’re truly, finally, only mine.
She clenches, arches, as if melding even deeper into his hand. Those sweet spasms under his fingers are the most honest, most alive thing he’s ever felt.
He doesn’t wait for her breathing to calm. He can’t.
As the first wave of her orgasm releases her, he, still trembling with desire turning into insatiable lust, confidently turns her onto her stomach. His hands grip her waist—firmly, as if afraid she’ll dissolve, vanish. If this isn’t a dream, it’s surely madness, reckless abandon with no cure. His lips find her back. Kiss after kiss, hot, wet, possessive, as if trying to inscribe himself into every line of her body. He presses his chest, his stomach, his entire body against her, feeling her skin respond with a faint shiver.
He can’t wait any longer. His hips press firmly against her buttocks, one hand sliding along the silken sheet beneath her stomach, pulling her closer. And he feels her arch, as if offering herself, as if her entire being says—yes, do it. She waits, feels, reaches, wants as much as he does.
To hell with it all.
One precise, greedy thrust—and he’s inside.
The world ceases to exist. He moves slowly, deliberately, breathing heavily into her neck, pressing into her as if trying to become part of her, to merge. One hand grips her thigh firmly, the other glides over her stomach, her breast, her neck, memorizing every detail—to never, under any circumstances, forget. And in that moment, leaning low to her ear, he exhales hoarsely, unrestrained, from the depths of his being:
“I’ve wanted you too long, my Maomao.”
A shiver.
The locks are desperately broken. She freezes, drawing in a shaky breath, and he feels her clench around him, as if pulling him even deeper. She accepts him with her whole being, open heart, closed eyes, with a trust she might have feared her entire life. She wasn’t taught to let anyone this close. And now he’s inside her—not just physically, but somehow further, more terrifyingly. God, she’s hot. Wet. Perfect. Every millimeter of her seems made for him to burn in her flames.
He enters her fully. Presses himself to her entirely—greedily, as if afraid to miss a single moment of this closeness; one hand holds her, the other glides along her sides, her waist, up—embracing, claiming her entirely. He doesn’t need to see her face to know: she feels everything. Every rhythm, every pulse. All of her—in his hands. Surrendering. Completely. Without shame.
He quickens his movements. Insistent, deep. Without haste, but with such hunger that he scares himself. The wet, slapping sounds between their bodies spark a flicker of shame, yet make it all so… real? She matches his rhythm, matches him, their bodies merging, breaths intertwining. As if she knows his every move in advance.
He is hers, she is his.
His lips cover her back with kisses: from her shoulder blades, up to the curve of her neck. He can’t stop. Finds her shoulder and bites again—with a right she granted him willingly.
“Maomao…”
His voice envelops, dissolves between her shoulder blades. He’s not imagining it: she truly shivers every damn time he says her name. Maomao. Maomao-Maomao-Maomao. If this is a dream, let it last forever. He’s ready to never wake up, as long as she’s by his side. Please. Please.
He repeats her name like a mantra, as if losing himself, dissolving in it. As if it’s the only thing he can cling to, to avoid burning in her entirely. And she… she trembles with every utterance. Her name, torn through his teeth during a thrust, when he’s inside her—ignites a wave she can’t contain, neither in her moans nor in her responding movements.
And when she’s close, he feels it with every inch of his skin. He leans to her ear deliberately, speaking louder, more confidently.
“My Maomao.”
Do you hear me? It’s you. It’s all you.
Her breath catches. She didn’t know her own name could drive her to such ecstasy. And she doesn’t hold back.
As if everything in her cracks, bursts, breaks under the weight of his voice. From the sound of her name alone, she explodes, arching in his embrace, as if trying to break free from her own body.
He freezes, clenching his teeth. He can’t finish before her. He grips her hips tightly. Presses deeper, trying to look at the ceiling, to distract himself somehow—to hold back the inevitable disaster. But he can’t tear his eyes away. He trembles, watching her surrender to a new wave of tender spasms.
Not yet. Just a little longer… Just a bit more.
Madness. Every cell of his body, every nerve in his cock, feels the wave of her pleasure washing over him, rhythmically squeezing him from within. To be inside her, to feel her come on him. Because of him. For him. Unbearable.
He counts her heartbeats. Her sighs. Her moans. Until her final movement, her final whimper—until she quiets in his arms, as if becoming lighter than air, so he too can dissolve, spill into her completely.
What is intimacy between a man and a woman? For some, it might just be a pleasant act of relieving tension, with the bonus of creating new life. But not for him.
This intimacy—true intimacy—is vulnerable, full of contradictions. By giving yourself entirely, your whole being, your soul and body to another, you gain treasures beyond measure, far surpassing any expectations. And he—now—knows this. But what of himself? In a blessed marital union, it seems the individuality of each gives way to a new “we.” But in this mystical merging, don’t we find a new self? A better self? The truest self?
With her—with Maomao—he finally understood what it means to be truly himself. And perhaps never before has he—Jinshi—felt so alive.
As the final wave of his orgasm fades, dissolving into the ethereal afterglow, he gently, as if handling a fragile porcelain figurine, helps her turn, propping her back against the pillows. And, collapsing onto her with his full weight, he buries his face in the curve of her neck.
She barely turns her head—and freezes. A hot drop falls on her shoulder. A tear. He says nothing, only breathes heavily and holds the one who returned him to himself.
“Jinshi…”
She exhales it almost soundlessly, her fingers running through his glossy hair. And in that one name—everything. Acknowledgment. Acceptance. Trust. Love.
He doesn’t hide, doesn’t pull away. Only holds her tighter, pressing her to him as if afraid that loosening his grip for even a moment will make it all vanish. Him. Her. Jinshi. Maomao. Their morning. And their new “we.”