The room was bathed in the harsh, golden light of mid-morning when she finally drifted awake. The weight of the night before sat heavy in her limbs, a deep, rhythmic ache that radiated from her hips to her very bones. She tried to shift, but the friction of the silk sheets against her sensitized skin made her hiss.
How many times had it been? Six? Seven? She had lost count somewhere between the third time he'd flipped her over and the moment she'd been coached into a position she'd only ever read about in hushed whispers.
Her husband, the cool, disciplined, terrifyingly composed heir to the Fu empire, was already up.
He was fully dressed in a charcoal suit, the jacket off, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He sat in a velvet armchair, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, watching her with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thin.
Self-consciously, she scrambled to pull the duvet up to her chin, clutching the fabric as if it could shield her from his gaze.
"Come, Angel," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
She paused. Angel. He had started calling her that last night in the heat of it, a stark contrast to the predatory beast he had become in the dark. A flush crept up her neck, staining her pale skin.
"Come and eat," he gestured to the spread of food on the table in the center of the room. "You will need your strength for later."
Her mind flashed back to what happened between them last night and how she had practically fallen asleep on his shoulder from sheer exhaustion and nerves. The embarrassment hit her like a physical blow. There was going to be a later.
She stood up, the heavy blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon, and moved toward the table. She reached for a chair beside him, but he caught her wrist, his eyes darkening as he motioned to his lap.
She hesitated, then obeyed. Sitting on him felt like sitting on a statue of warm marble. He began to feed her, his movements methodical and slow, until she felt something firm and familiar poke against her thigh. She let out a small, startled hiccup.
"I really did not want to scare you last night," he murmured against her ear, "but you are incredibly hard to resist. But as always... if you want to stop, just say so."
He leaned back, his gaze dropping to her lips. "Have you ever ridden a guy?"
She shook her head vigorously, her heart hammering.
"Words, Angel. Use your words."
"No," she whispered.
"Good," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Take off the blankets."
She moved slowly, the silk pooling at her waist. His eyes raked over his handiwork, the dark, flowering hickeys and bite marks that stood out in violent contrast against her milky-white skin.
"I think I might be addicted to you," he confessed, the admission sounding almost like a threat.
He unfastened his trousers, letting his length spring free, thick and pulsing with renewed intent. He guided her hips, positioning her over him. She took him slowly, gasping as her body stretched to accommodate the intrusion. He reached the tip, but a good portion of the shaft remained, and he guided her fingers to wrap around what was left.
"Move for me," he commanded. "I want to watch you."
She began to move, her eyes locked on his. She watched for the slight hitch in his breath, the way his jaw tightened when she sank particularly deep. She was searching for signs, was she doing well? Was he feeling this as much as she was?
"Angel, stay on me," he growled, reading her mind with terrifying ease. "Do not wander away. I like it. I love watching you."
Emboldened, she leaned forward to kiss the pulse point in his neck, her movements growing faster, more desperate. She used one hand to grip his hair and the other to steady herself against his lap. The sound of their bodies meeting, the wet, rhythmic slapping of her skin against his thighs, filled the quiet room, getting louder and more frantic.
He slapped her butt, a sharp sting that sent her spiraling into another sudden, vocal climax. A wicked, satisfied smirk spread across his face, but she wasn't finished. Determined to see him break, she whispered his name.
"Fu Yao."
His eyes flared. She took him deeper, grinding against him with sultry, heavy-lidded looks, her fingers dancing along his length. She felt his hands find her breasts, his thumbs punishing her nipples as he began to thrust upward to meet her.
The pace became a blur of friction and heat. She watched the mask of the disciplined businessman finally shatter as he neared his limit. They came together this time, a chaotic collision of sound and sensation. As she collapsed against his chest, she saw the look of total, unadulterated satisfaction on his face, and knew she had finally undone him.