Chapter 3: 'Fuck, look at you - playing with that tight little pussy while I stroke my dick,' Yang Yang rasps, his free hand gripping the phone tighter as Churan arches off the bed, her thighs glistening under the lamplight.
The buzz of his phone was a dying insect between them. Yang Yang didn’t move. He kept his forehead pressed against the warmth of Churan’s skin, breathing in her scent—jasmine soap and the faint, sweet trace of whiskey.
After a long moment, she shifted. She reached across him, her movement causing her hips to roll against his lap in a way that was entirely unintentional and utterly distracting. Her finger swiped across his phone screen, silencing it. She didn’t look at the alert. She simply placed the phone face down on the cushion beside them.
“See?” she murmured, her lips close to his ear. “Gone.”
But it wasn’t. It was just inverted, a blank black rectangle holding a universe of noise. He felt its presence like a third person in the room.
“Churan…”
“Don’t,” she said, cutting him off softly. She leaned back, her hands framing his face. Her eyes were dark pools in the low light. “You’re thinking in loops. I can see it. Stop. Be here.”
She kissed him again, and this time there was a deliberate heat to it, a slow, consuming focus that demanded surrender. Her tongue slid against his, and a low groan escaped his chest. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers pressing into the soft give of her sweatpants. The warning from Wei, the outside world—it all began to blur, receding under the immediate, persuasive reality of her mouth.
When she broke the kiss, her breath was short. “We were reviewing the hospital scene. Remember?”
He blinked. The script. The ridiculous, flimsy pretext for him coming over. “Right.”
“So let’s review.” She climbed off his lap, taking his hands and pulling him up from the couch. She led him the few short steps to her small sleeping area, where the bed was unmade, sheets tangled. A tablet lay on the bedside table, next to a half-empty glass of water. She picked up the tablet, tapped it awake, and settled back against the piled pillows, patting the space beside her.
He kicked off his shoes and joined her, the mattress dipping under his weight. She pulled up a document, but the text was a blur to him. She smelled too good, felt too warm beside him.
“Page forty-seven,” she said, her voice slipping into a studied, professional calm. “The dialogue after the resuscitation. Your line about hope feeling like a physical ache. I think the delivery should be quieter. More internal.”
“Mhm.” He wasn’t looking at the screen. He was watching the line of her throat as she spoke, the way her pale sweater draped off one shoulder.
She felt his gaze. A small smile touched her lips. She shifted, and the loose collar of her sweater slipped further, revealing the smooth curve of her shoulder and the strap of a simple, lace-trimmed camisole beneath. It was a casual adjustment. It could have been an accident.
It wasn’t.
Yang Yang reached out, hooking a finger under the strap and gently pulling it down her arm. The soft fabric of the camisole followed, revealing the swell of her breast. She didn’t stop reading her notes aloud, but her breath hitched, just a tiny catch.
“The subtext is that he’s terrified,” she continued, her voice now a thread softer. “But he can’t show it. So it’s all in the eyes.” She finally turned her head to look at him. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re not wearing a bra,” he said, his voice rough.
She smiled, a real one this time, wide and wicked. “Observant.” She let the tablet fall to the duvet. With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled the sweater and the camisole over her head in one movement and tossed them aside. Her skin was luminous in the dim light.
He stared, the air thickening in his lungs. This was the game, the one they knew so well. The script was forgotten. The only text now was the flush spreading across her chest, the tight peaks of her nipples. He leaned in and took one into his mouth, sucking deep, his tongue circling the hardening bud. Her head fell back against the headboard with a soft thud, a sigh melting from her lips.
“So,” she breathed, her fingers tangling in his hair. “No notes on my performance?”
He moved to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, biting down just enough to make her gasp. “It’s convincing.”
She pushed at his shoulders, guiding him onto his back. She swung a leg over him, straddling his waist again, but now there was only the denim of his jeans between them. She leaned down, her hair forming a curtain around their faces, and kissed him, deep and filthy. “Your turn,” she whispered against his mouth. “Let me see you.”
He helped her shove his sweater off. Her hands were urgent on the button of his jeans, the zip a loud rasp in the quiet room. She pushed them down over his hips, and he kicked them free. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, curving up against his stomach.
Churan made a soft, hungry sound. She wrapped her hand around him, her grip firm and knowing. “God, look at you,” she murmured, pumping him slowly. “Always so fucking ready.”
He thrust up into her fist, a sharp, involuntary movement. “You do this to me.”
“I know.” Her smile was pure sin. She released him, and before he could protest, she shifted back, settling between his legs. She bent her head, and her tongue, hot and wet, licked a long, torturous stripe from the base of his cock to the tip.
He cursed, fingers clutching at the sheets.
She took him into her mouth, sinking down slowly, her lips stretching tight around his girth. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard as she began to bob her head, establishing a rhythm that was both skilled and deeply obscene. Her eyes were open, locked on his, watching every twitch of his face.
The sight was unravelling him—her beautiful face working him, the slick sounds, the sheer fucking audacity of it. He was close too fast, the tension from the day coiling and tightening low in his belly. “Churan… fuck, I’m gonna…”
She pulled off with a wet pop, her lips swollen and glistening. “Not yet.” She crawled back up his body, aligning herself over him. She reached between her own legs, guiding him to her entrance. She was soaking wet; he felt the heat and slickness against his head. “We do it together.”
She sank down onto him in one slow, breathtaking motion, taking him all the way inside until he was buried to the hilt. They both moaned, a ragged, harmonized sound of pure relief.
For a second, they didn’t move, just connected, breathing each other’s air. Her inner walls fluttered around him, impossibly tight and hot. Then she began to ride him, rolling her hips in a grinding, circular motion that made him see stars.
“Touch yourself,” he groaned, his hands grabbing her hips, trying to guide her, to drive deeper. “Let me see you come.”
Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then opened, gleaming with challenge. She brought a hand down between their bodies, her fingers finding her clit. He could feel the side of her hand brushing against him with every downward stroke of her hips.
“Like this?” she breathed, her movements becoming more frantic. “You want to watch me fuck myself on your cock?”
“Yes.” The word was a growl. He was transfixed by the sight—her breasts bouncing, the frantic circle of her fingers, the raw, unfiltered pleasure on her face. He felt his own control splintering. “Come on. Come for me.”
Her rhythm broke, became jerky, desperate. A high, broken sound escaped her throat. “Yang Yang…!”
Her inner muscles clenched around him in a vicious, pulsing grip, and that was all it took. With a ragged shout, he drove up into her one last time as his own orgasm ripped through him, white-hot and blinding, spilling deep inside her in hot, endless pulses.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, boneless, her body still trembling with aftershocks. Their sweat-slick skin stuck together. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint, digital hum of the forgotten tablet.
He held her, one hand splayed on the warm skin of her back, the other still tangled in her hair. The world, for a few precious minutes, had shrunk to this: the smell of sex, the weight of her, the slowing hammer of her heart against his.
Then his eyes, drifting over her shoulder, caught the soft glow of the tablet screen. It had timed out, gone black. But as he stared, it lit up again with an incoming notification. And beside it, the tiny green light of the front-facing camera stared back at him, unblinking.
A cold thread of clarity cut through the post-coital haze.
“Churan,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Hmm?” She nuzzled against his neck.
“Your tablet. Did you… was your camera on?”
She went very still. Then, slowly, she lifted her head. She followed his gaze to the device lying innocently on the rumpled sheets.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The dawning horror in her eyes, mirroring his own, was answer enough.
The video call. She’d never ended it. They’d just put his phone face down and walked away, leaving the connection live, the camera active, broadcasting the dim, intimate silence of her bedroom to an empty screen they’d assumed was black.
Or perhaps not so empty.
The comfortable, carefree bubble they’d lived in for months had just violently, irrevocably popped.