The canopy bed creaked beneath them, the sound low and steady in the quiet room, but Yuche barely heard it over the sounds Rouxi was making.
Everything in him had narrowed to her, to every breath she took, every sound she failed to hide, every flicker of expression that crossed her face before she could bury it under her pride.
The rest of the house could have collapsed around them and he might not have noticed, not when the whole of his existence had reduced itself to her mouth, her hands, and the sharp little sounds that made his control fray faster each time he pulled them from her.
His hands tightened on her hips before he could stop them, and when he saw the faint red impressions left behind, satisfaction moved through him so sharply it almost hurt. Those marks would fade. He knew that. But for one brief, unreasonable second, he hated the idea of losing even that small proof of where his hands had been when she stopped pretending she was unaffected.
