Wanchun came six times before the sun touched the mountain's western edge.
She stopped counting Lin Suya's orgasms somewhere around four when they stopped being individual events and became a continuous, overlapping state that the young woman was simply living inside.
The candles burned low.
The room smelled of everything that had happened in it.
He carried them to the balcony.
Not separately. One in each arm, both women pressed against his sides with their bare skin against the cool mountain air, their tits against his ribs, the evening light on the mountain's eastern face spreading across the inner pavilion gardens below in long, amber strips.
Lin Suya made a small, contented sound against his shoulder.
Wanchun looked at the valley.
The spring.
