Chapter 27
Ruilin~
If I’d thought the passion would abate, I was mistaken.
Our intimacy is a ritual, where we rediscover each other with fervor. Each morning, still heavy-lidded and wrapped in the remnants of dreams, we would slide into the embrace of the deep soaking tub, its dimensions just right for two if we folded our knees and wove our legs into a seamless lovers’ knot. I cradle her head, letting my fingers delve into her hair, massaging her scalp until she sighed with pleasure, surrendering her tension to me.
Our attempts at innocent restraint always dissolved as one of us would instinctively pull the other beneath the water’s surface, our mouths meeting in breath-stealing kisses until we emerged gasping, laughter and soap suds flying, water splashing our limbs tangling in a playful struggle. Inevitably, the electric charge between us would surge, and we would find ourselves on the cold, wet floor by the tub, our bodies rolling and merging in a feverish dance, creating a shimmering puddle of desire beneath us.
“That one is best for inflammation and this one aids digestion.” Lue Lue said. She is pointing with the tip of her little garden trowel at the feathered leaves of a plant growing low to the ground, its pale yellow flowers clustered like miniature lanterns waiting for dusk. Yi Nuo crouches beside the border, knees pressed to the cool earth, the battered spine of her sketchbook held taut with both hands as she carefully observes the angle of the stalk, the shade of the blossoms. Her tongue pokes out in concentration while her brush works quickly, whispering motions to capture the delicate geometry of the plant in a few economical lines. A funny gesture I’ve seen before but I can’t recall where.
Lue Lue watches her with a smile that’s a mix of pride and faint amusement, then kneels down, seemingly unconcerned about the dirt that stains her hem or the relentless army of ants that marches across her boot. “You’re getting faster,” she comments. Yi Nuo, too absorbed in her work to notice me sneaking up, grins with her head still bent over her page. She flips to a different section of her notebook—a hand-lettered table listing symptoms, preparation, and warnings. As she bites her lip, she jots down a note (“flowers must be dried, not boiled; see page 12”) and returns to her drawing.
While they work, a bee trundles from petal to petal, its body so laden with yellow pollen that it seems to struggle with flight. The air is thick with the sweetness of crushed herbs and the lingering scent of last night’s rain. Though Lue Lue’s hands are far from soft, and the pad of her thumb is stained green, the way she tenderly tucks a stray leaf behind Yi Nuo’s ear is so gentle it might as well be the petal of a newborn bloom. “When you study a thing, you understand it,” Lue Lue murmurs, perhaps more to herself than to Yi Nuo. “When you draw it, it stays in your heart.”
A cloud passes overhead, momentarily dimming the sun, and the garden feels as though it’s closing in slightly, the warmth taking on an intimate, hidden nature. Yi Nuo looks up from her work, meeting Lue Lue’s gaze and then noticing me.
I clear my throat with exaggerated formality and say, “Excuse me, Lue Lue. I need to give your mistress something, as it’s time sensitive.” Before either of them can protest or react, I seize my chance, and in one swift motion I scoop up Yi Nuo, who emits a sound I have only heard from startled songbirds, and sling her over my shoulder like a sack of rice. She thrashes, a controlled and half-hearted protest, because I know her delight is genuine, and slaps her fist against the small of my back, which makes Lue Lue snort into her cuff. “Put me down! I’m in the middle of something!” Yi Nuo yells, but her words are muffled against my outer garment, and she is careful not to lose grip of her precious sketchbook, which she clutches to her chest as I march her away from the neat rows of herbs and into the slanting sunlight of our residence.
When she begins to squirm seriously, I hoist her higher, disregarding her protests, and deliver a firm slap to her backside. “Quiet wife. This is an adult matter,” I declare, despite my own childish antics that might exclude me from that group. “Someone might see us! Where is your decorum? You are the Crown Prince.” Yi Nuo whispers urgently knowing the servants are watching the event unfold, snickering behind their hands but they’ve been with me since childhood and their unwavering loyalty ensures they will protect me. No one would dare to gossip about what they see in my palace.
“Let them watch,” I reply. “They could learn a thing or two about love, passion and boldness.” I parade her around the stone path, making a show of it as we pass the kitchen’s herb beds and the little shaded bench where Lue Lue has returned to her basket of freshly cut flowers, now casting us a long, sly glance. She doesn’t say anything, but the tilt of her head and the knowing glimmer in her eye tells me she is both amused and only pretending disapproval. From the garden’s edge, the lazy buzzing of bees is replaced by a ripple of laughter from the kitchen window, where an audience of aproned attendants have indeed gathered their hands over their mouths in delight.
Yi Nuo groans, hiding her face in my outer garment. “You’re impossible,” she grumbles, her voice muffled but unmistakably affectionate. She dangles there, legs kicking, before finally conceding defeat and relinquishing her struggle. I carry her up the stairs and into the cool, dark hallway, where our shadows stretch in strange, elongated shapes on the walls. Only when we’re safely inside my room, certain that we are alone and beyond the prying eyes and laughter of those outside, do I release the chuckle I had been holding back.
“Is your time-sensitive matter embarrassing me publicly, or have you really something to give me?” she asks, her voice a silken whisper as I settle her on the cool, wide marble ledge. The chill seeps into my own hands as I smooth her rumpled skirt, the sound a soft rustle against the polished stone. Her head shakes in exasperation before her hands fold primly in her lap. A tremor, barely perceptible, dances in her smile as I place the ornate box before her. The silk wrapping glows, a warm apricot hue in the late afternoon sun, rich and thick like honey spilled across the windowsill. The scent of lavender, faint but calming, hangs in the air. For a moment, she simply stares, captivated. I see her mind working—the sunset color, the weighty feel of the box, the lavender’s subtle perfume—then, with grace befitting a princess, she unravels the silk. Her fingertips, light as a butterfly’s wing, trace the luxurious surface, each movement deliberate, her eagerness palpable.
She works the wax seal loose and peels the silk away, releasing a faint breath of candle and willow. The paper beneath is heavy, the kind used for imperial decrees, but here it enfolds only a boxy parcel, its corners imperfect as if I wrapped it myself. (I did. I spent an hour in the library the night before, determined to make the seams align perfectly.) She hesitates before opening it, glancing up at me as if seeking permission. I only nod, smug.
Inside the box—nothing, at first glance. Just a slit in the bottom, like a coin bank for forgotten wishes. She blinks, uncertain, before tilting the box toward the light. There, peeking through the slot, my thumb and forefinger form a wobbly heart, the shape lopsided and absurdly earnest. She recoils in mock outrage, then leans in, examining the silliness as if it’s a rare specimen.
Yi Nuo~
The sight of the ridiculous finger-heart—his big hand, careful and clumsy at once, thumb and index fingers pressed together curled into a lopsided heart that’s more of a bump—kicks up a sudden pressure in my chest so acute I nearly choke. I swallow once, hard, determined to maintain some scrap of dignity even as the corners of my mouth threaten complete mutiny.
He is so utterly, shamelessly himself—full of absurd pride in his own cleverness, so sure I will understand this foolish joke and I do. It is the kind of thing so precious I will keep tucked in the back pocket of memory for my entire life. I fix my eyes on the box, feigning a skeptical examination, but the truth is I can’t meet his gaze for fear the dam will burst and I’ll rush him like a besotted girl.
I try to force a scowl, but it’s a losing battle. I settle for rolling my eyes, a performance for his benefit, but there’s a traitor’s smile stretching my lips, for I’ve never been this amused.
“Is this what counts as ‘priceless treasure’ in the Eastern Palace these days?” I deadpan, but my voice is thin and wobbling with the effort of keeping it together.
He leans in, grinning with the slow, perilous delight of a cat stalking a canary. “Oh, you don’t want your present?” His eyes flick to the window, then back to me. “Fine, that was for giggles. I have another gift right here. “
He slips his hand out from beneath the box and, without breaking eye contact, makes the most obscene, childish gesture imaginable—jiggles the box at hip level, then dips it, so what pops out will be from between his thighs. I bite down a shriek of laughter, heat flooding my face, and whip the box across the room at him as hard as I dare. He only snatches it out of the air, the bugger, and crows, “Ah, you’re so easy to embarrass and delight! Yi Nuo, I know for a fact you love this present!”
I find myself halfway to the door, clutching my sides, before I realize he’s crossed the room with two giant strides and is standing between me and escaping. “Is that all?” I demand, trying to muster a look of stern disapproval, but my eyes are bright and my breath comes quick. “That isn’t a gift.”
“Ah, I see I’ve raised your expectations too high,” he tuts, voice dropping into a low, conspiratorial rumble. “You’re right. Shame on me.” He affects an exaggerated sigh and, with the air of a showman, unties the knot of his outer sash. “The real gift is much, much bigger.” He grins, wicked, and drops his gaze to the “package” in question.
“It’s the middle of the day! Don’t you dare,” I warn, backing away, hands raised.
Instantly he pounces, catching my wrist in a grip that is gentle but totally inescapable. “If you run,” he says, with mock menace, “I’ll have to demonstrate the gift. Here. Up close.”
I shriek and dart toward the far side of the chamber. I make it only two steps before he scoops me up around the waist. I kick and twist, but he just throws me over his shoulder and one hand securely on my hips. Blood rushes to my head as I dangle, and the sensation is dizzying and riotously funny.
“You lunatic!” I gasp, pounding his back. “There’s something wrong with you! Put me down!”
He only laughs, the sound so pure and triumphant it sets my skin tingling. He held me suspended over his shoulders with ease, and the effect is both annoying and secretly thrilling.
He grins. “If I let you down, will you promise not to run?”
“Absolutely not.” I shout.
He shrugs, as if this outcome delights him most of all, and with a little flourish, deposits me gently onto the bed. I bounce once, indignant, and scramble away to the headboard, still breathing hard and clutching a pillow like armor.
He prowls after me, hands up in a show of surrender, but the mischief gleaming in his eyes betrays him. “All right, all right, no more surprises. You win.”
“Do I?” I retort.
He inches closer, the featherweight pressure of his thigh nudging against mine, and the laughter rimming his features softens, replaced by a steadiness that ground the air between us. His brows draw together in a vulnerable sincerity. It is somehow more dangerous than his wolfish play. “You know,” he says, his voice stripped of its earlier irony, “reciprocity is a virtue in the Eastern Palace.”
I blink, surprised; “Reciprocity?” I echo, wary, uncertain if we are still playing the same game, or if the stakes have been surreptitiously swapped for something heavier.
He drops his gaze, lashes flickering dark as calligraphy on his cheek. “It’s tradition,” he continues, lips curving faintly. He leans in so his next words are a whisper meant for me alone: “When a husband presents his wife a treasure, the wife should return one of her own. Preferably something consumable.”
“Consumable? Like a cake?” I repeat, and the word is out of my mouth before I can decide whether to laugh or strike him. But it’s already too late: he’s seized the moment, as if the surprise on my face is the opening he’s been waiting for.
In a single, fluid motion, he hooks an arm behind my knees and yanks me down the mattress. I protest, a stifled yelp that is instantly lost when he glides his palms under the hem of my skirt, bunching the stiff brocade at my waist. His touch is at once delicate and possessive, as if the thin silk of my undergarment is both precious and entirely beside the point as he yanks them off me.
“Cake indeed,” he murmurs, the words vibrating against the exposed hollow of my thigh. And before my mind can catch up and there is the faintest flicker of anticipation—he has pressed his mouth over my sex, tongue hot and insistent, and I convulse on instinct, the sensation of a live wire from my spine to the tips of my toes.
The first contact is tentative, a testing of boundaries—his tongue tracing the seam of my desire in a slow, teasing arc, as if he’s determined to catalogue every reaction, every gasp and involuntary twitch. He looks up at me as he works and pins my calves over his broad shoulders and holds me fast, spreading me open with an obscene devotion.
It is not the first time he’s done this to me—devoured me like a dessert brought out too early, deliberate in his indecency and wolfish in appetite—but never has he done so with such practiced gentleness. He begins with a single, teasing sweep, the brush of his tongue featherlight, so barely there I’m not sure if I’ve imagined it until the aftershock trembles through my thighs. Then another stroke, firmer, drawing a line up the slick center of me, tip to tip, slow enough that every nerve along the way stands at attention. I twist, hips tilting toward his face, and he meets me greedily, refusing to let me move except on his exact and excruciating terms.
I dig my fists into the bedding, then the crown of his head as my hands travel down without permission. He hums his approval, hands spreading my thighs wider, fingers digging into the creases above my knees as if to pin me open for optimal access and maximize pleasure. The way he pins me there, the casual strength of his grip and the way he holds me like a prize he’s unwilling to share—it’s the kind of want that is both obscene and exalting at once.
He pauses to watch the effect of his work, chin resting on the inside of my leg, lips shining. “You’re too eager,” he says, not unkindly. “You always are.” There is a smugness in his voice, but it is feathered with warmth, almost pride. He kisses the hollow of my inner thigh, then nips it gently, as if to remind me what he can do with his teeth if he chooses. I shiver, the threat and promise of it sending heat to my chest.
A strangled gasp escapes me as he lowers his head again, his movements now more purposeful, his tongue less playful, more demanding. He alternates between sweeping strokes and precise licks, pausing occasionally to circle and suck, drawing blood to my clitoris before pulling back. The precision is almost unbearable; I’m on the verge of tears.
He senses, somehow, the exact moment when the pleasure begins to knife into pain, and it is at that point that he slows. The sudden deprivation is maddening, and I whimper—actually whimper, utterly stripped of composure. He glances up, eyebrows raised in mock concern, and touches the trembling skin of my stomach with the backs of his knuckles. “Are you all right, Nuo?” he asks, as if this is a perfectly normal, clinical situation.
It’s hard to believe this sexual beast was recently a virgin. I want to curse him. Instead, I beg in a needy whimper, “Please don’t stop,” and he laughs, low and rumbling, and returns to the task with redoubled enthusiasm. At this, I lose the last of my inhibitions. I arch and writhe, every nerve a live current, and the sounds that leave my mouth are wild and unfamiliar, not words at all but raw exhalation.
He devours me with an unabashed hunger, his lips and tongue working skillfully until my fingers are tangled in his hair, and I gasp his name into the air. He drinks in my every reaction, as if savoring the pleasure he elicits more than the physicality of my body. As he senses me approaching the brink, teetering on the edge of no return, he expertly slides his fingers inside me, starting with one, then adding another. His touch is precise and unyielding, curving his fingers to trace deliberate circles and pressing against a spot that momentarily snatches my sight away in a burst of exquisite sensation. The first wave of release crashes over me suddenly, mercilessly, leaving me nearly sobbing. My thighs clamp around his head, but he remains steadfast, guiding me through the shuddering aftershocks, his tongue continuing its dance against my most sensitive skin as if determined to claim every last drop of my essence.
When the storm subsides, I collapse, boneless and breathless, my heart thundering in rhythm with the pulse between my legs, my eyelids fluttering in the afterglow. I’m only dimly aware of him retreating, the faint caress of his cheek brushing against my thigh, and the low, satisfied sound that rumbles from his chest. He grants me a moment to recover, to float in the lingering haze of bliss, but soon his impatience nudges him forward. He shifts beside me, propping himself on his elbows, his face hovering so near that I can discern the tiny flecks of amber glistening in his eyes.
He holds back from kissing me initially, instead flashing a grin that speaks volumes—”Look what I did to you.” Then he leans in, claiming my mouth with an open, devouring kiss, and I taste the essence of myself mingled with his desire. He pulls back with a playful nip at my lower lip, then deftly undresses us both and maneuvers us so I am perched atop him, my hair cascading in untamed waves around my face. My breasts rise and fall with each breath, nipples tingling and erect. He gazes up at me—truly gazes, his eyes softening into a breathtaking blend of love and awe—and his hands settle lightly at my waist, a tender and reverent touch.
“I love you.” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint.
He shifts me into place, one large hand sliding down to cup my hip, the other guiding himself to my entrance. The first push is slow, careful, and the stretch of him is almost painful after the teasing, but it’s a pain I crave. He fills me by degrees, letting me adjust to each new inch, and when I bottom out, our bodies locked together, he lets out a shuddering, helpless moan.
Breasts heaving, I lean forward, my palms pressing against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingers. For a fleeting moment, time pauses, and we are lost in the stillness—intertwined, our breaths mingling, hearts pounding in harmony. With a deep, steadying breath, he begins to move, guiding me with his rhythm, pulling me along his pelvis with each downward motion. My hips respond instinctively, tilting and grinding in perfect sync with his movements.
This time, there is a different energy. Instead of the usual frenetic pace, his movements are deliberate and controlled, each action calculated and precise. I can see the effort etched on his face, the strain in his muscles as he guides me. His hands are firm on my hips, directing me in a slow, deliberate dance—rolling circles that intensify with each pass, then lifting me gently before bringing me back down with an exquisite slowness. We communicate through an unspoken understanding, a silent dialogue crafted in the timeless language of desire.
Each time a breathless gasp escapes my lips, he counters with a slow, deliberate suckle, his mouth moving with purpose. His teeth gently graze my sensitive skin, expertly capturing and rolling my nipples between them. The sensation is electric, sending sharp, exhilarating waves coursing through my body, each one building in intensity, leaving me breathless and yearning for more.
As the tempo increases, so too does the urgency between us. His grip on restraint slips away, and his hips surge upward with a force that takes my breath away. I move with him, unreserved and uninhibited, caught up in the moment’s rawness. The room echoes with the symphony of our bodies—skin meeting skin with a rhythmic slap, our breathing heavy and intertwined, the bed creaking beneath us until I realize I’m crying again, silent tears streaking down my cheeks. He notices. Of course he does. He slows, concerned, flickering across his face, but I shake my head, clutching his shoulders and dragging him closer, pressing my forehead to his. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, and it is a plea as much as a command.
He obliges, intensifying his rhythm, and it isn’t long before I feel the pressure building again, sharper and hotter than before, like a storm brewing in my core. I brace myself against him, but he surprises me, shifting our positions so I am pinned beneath him, my legs thrown high over his broad shoulders, exposing me completely.
He bends me nearly in half, the world narrowing to just the two of us as he pounds into me, relentless and powerful, driving me to the edge until I feel myself spiraling towards ecstasy in the most exhilarating way imaginable. I arch my back, feeling the tension coiling within me, as he captures my lips with his, leaving me breathless and powerless to do anything but hold on. The second orgasm detonates within me, more shattering than the first, sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body. He follows suit, his hips stuttering, voice breaking as he breathlessly groans my name, releasing himself in deep, rhythmic pulses inside me, our bodies entwined in a moment of bliss.
We collapse together, a knot of hair, limbs and sweat and sticky, spent desire. Neither of us speaks. The only sound is the frantic thud of our hearts, the ragged drag of our breath.
The sun-drenched afternoon tryst, a whirlwind of tangled limbs and breathless whispers, is only one of many. The scent of summer skin and heated passion linger in the air. Unsurprisingly, two months later, a new life blooms within me, a secret warmth nestled deep.