Chapter 1: A Glance Across the Banquet
The carriage rocked with a steady, lurching rhythm that did nothing to calm the frantic beat of Cheng Shaoshang’s heart. Outside, the sounds of the capital faded into twilight. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sandalwood, horse leather, and him.
Ling Buyi’s hand was on her knee, a burning brand through the silk of her gown. He hadn’t said a word since he’d stepped into her carriage, dismissing her maid with a look that brooked no argument. His presence always did this—swallowed all the air, all the space, until he was the only thing that existed.
“This is stupid,” she said, but her voice was a whisper, and she didn’t move his hand.
“You came back to the capital three days ago.” His voice was low, a rough scrape against the quiet. “You did not send word.”
“What word was I to send? ‘Greetings, General. My husband and I have returned.’” She tried for her usual flippancy, but it fell flat.
His fingers tightened. “You know that is not what I mean.”
She did know. The months in Hua County had been a peaceful, sun-drenched dream. Lou Yao was kind. Their life was simple. She’d almost convinced herself that the frantic, hungry thing that woke in her chest whenever Ling Buyi was near had been a childish fever. Then her carriage had been waylaid by thieves on the road back, and he had appeared like a vengeful ghost, cutting them down without breaking a sweat. He’d checked her for injuries, his hands impersonal until they weren’t. In the silent aftermath, blood on the ground, they’d looked at each other. And that was it. The first time, against a tree, her robes shoved up around her waist, his mouth silencing her cries. It had been brutal and quick and it had shattered every calm lie she’d told herself.
“Lou Yao is waiting for me at home,” she said.
“Let him wait.”
His mouth was on hers then, cutting off any other thought. It wasn’t a kiss of gentle persuasion; it was a claiming. He licked into her mouth, tasted her, bit her lower lip until she gasped. She kissed him back with equal fury, her hands fumbling with the intricate fastenings of his armor. She hated this. She loved this. She craved it.
They broke apart, breathing ragged. “We can’t,” she panted.
“We already are.” He made quick, efficient work of her sash. The beautiful banquet gown, a gift from Lou Yao, pooled around her hips as he pushed her down onto the cushioned seat. The cold air of the carriage hit her skin, followed by the devastating heat of his hands. He shoved her legs apart, kneeling between them. His eyes, dark and endless, swept over her.
“Every night,” he growled, his thumbs pressing cruel, possessive circles on the insides of her thighs. “I think of this. Of you. Under him. It makes me want to burn the world.”
She arched off the seat when his head dipped. His tongue was a flat, hot stroke against her core. She jammed a fist against her own mouth to smother the sound. He ate her with a single-minded intensity that left her shaking, his arms hooking under her thighs to hold her open, to go deeper. The pleasure was a sharp, coiling shock, obliterating guilt, obliterating thought. She came with a broken shudder, her body pulsing around his tongue.
Before she could recover, he was yanking at his own clothes. He freed his cock, thick and rigid in his fist. He was not gentle. He guided himself to her entrance and pushed in with one deep, relentless thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt.
The stretch was perfect, a breathtaking fullness. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He held himself there, jaw taut, a vein throbbing in his temple.
“Tell me you do not feel this,” he demanded, his voice raw. “Tell me you feel this with him.”
She couldn’t. She shook her head, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. It was the truth. With Lou Yao, it was pleasant, a gentle convergence. With this man, it was a devastating collision.
He began to move. Deep, punishing strokes that rocked the entire carriage on its axles. The sound was obscene—skin on skin, her gasping breaths, his guttural grunts. She knew his guards stood mere feet away, outside the lacquered walls, hearing everything. The danger of it, the sheer degradation, only made her clench tighter around him. He hissed, his control fraying.
He hooked an arm under her knee, folding her nearly in half, changing the angle. On the next thrust, she saw stars. “There,” he snarled, watching her face unravel. “Right there.”
She was close again, a tighter, sharper peak rising. He seemed to know it. He drove into her, again and again, his pace becoming brutal, erratic. His mouth found her breast through the thin fabric of her under-robe, sucking hard. The dual sensations tipped her over. She came with a silent, seizing scream, her body milking him violently.
With a ragged groan, he followed her. He shoved in one last, deep time, pulsing hot inside her. He collapsed over her, his weight a solid, comforting prison. For long moments, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant call of a night watchman.
Reality seeped back in, cold and unwelcome. He pulled out of her slowly. The aftermath was messy. He cleaned her with a cloth from his own sleeve, his touch now oddly meticulous. He righted her clothing with a soldier’s efficiency, then fastened his own.
The carriage was slowing. They were nearing the Lou estate.
He cupped her face, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, but the cold mask was settling back into place. “The Marquise of Yanguan’s birthday banquet. Tomorrow night.”
“You declined the invitation. Everyone is talking about it.”
“I will be there.”
Her heart stuttered. “Why?”
“Because you will be there.” He said it as a simple, irrefutable fact. He brushed his thumb over her swollen lips. “And because I have to see you again before I go mad.”
The carriage stopped. With one last, burning look, he slipped out the door and was gone into the night, leaving her alone with the smell of him and the aching, tender proof between her legs of what they had done.
The Grand Hall of the Marquise’s estate was a symphony of shimmering silks and murmured gossip. Shaoshang sat beside Lou Yao, picking at a plate of exquisite delicacies that tasted like ash.
“I still can’t believe he’s coming,” Lou Yao said, leaning in. “General Ling never attends these private functions. Father is practically preening.”
Shaoshang just nodded, her eyes glued to the main entrance. Her body still hummed from the night before. She felt marked.
A ripple went through the crowd, a wave of bows and whispers. He entered without fanfare, yet every eye followed him. Ling Buyi, in dark, impeccable robes, looked like a blade sheathed in night. He acknowledged the host with a slight nod, his gaze sweeping the room. It passed over her, a searing touch that lasted less than a second, yet her skin flushed.
The banquet proceeded. Toasts were made. Music played. She felt his gaze like a physical weight, a hook in her ribcage, pulling from across the room. She laughed too brightly at one of Lou Yao’s jokes, just to have something to do.
An hour in, she couldn’t stand it. Muttering an excuse about air, she slipped out through a side corridor, finding a sliver of quiet near a screened balcony overlooking the gardens.
She’d only been there a moment when the air changed, grew charged. She didn’t need to turn.
“You look tired,” his voice came from behind her, quiet.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you.”
She turned then. He was closer than she’d imagined. In the dim light, his beautiful face was all harsh angles and shadowed hunger. “Was once not enough?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“No.” The word was absolute. He reached out, tracing the neckline of her gown, a hair’s breadth from her skin. “It will never be enough. You know that.”
From the hall, the muffled sound of Lou Yao’s laugh floated out. Ling Buyi’s hand stilled. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He didn’t insult him. He didn’t plead his own case. The sheer force of his jealousy was a silent, palpable thing in the space between them.
It was that, the raw, unadorned truth of his wanting, that undid her. She swayed toward him.
He met her halfway. His kiss was different now—not the rage of the carriage, but a devastatingly slow conflagration. He kissed her as if memorizing her, as if drinking her. His tongue slid against hers, deep and searching. One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, the other splayed possessively on the small of her back, pressing her into the hard line of his body. She could feel him, hard and ready, even through their layers of clothing.
She kissed him back, pouring every bit of her own frustrated longing into it. For that minute, there was no duty, no husband, no future. There was only this stolen, desperate connection.
He was the one who broke it, pulling away with a sharp, pained breath. He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling.
“Go back to your husband,” he whispered, the words strained.
She blinked, dazed. He was already turning, disappearing back into the shadows of the corridor as silently as he’d come, leaving her alone with the taste of him on her lips and the devastating certainty that this was far from over.
He was already turning, disappearing back into the shadows of the corridor as silently as he’d come, leaving her alone with the taste of him on her lips and the devastating certainty that this was far from over.
Three days later, a simple, unmarked carriage collected her from the marketplace. No note. No warning. She knew. Her heart hammered against her ribs the entire journey, a frantic bird in a cage. It stopped not at the imposing front gates of the Ling estate, but at a secluded side entrance leading to his private quarters. A silent guard ushered her through barren, elegant corridors that smelled of ink and cold stone.
He was standing at a window when she entered, his back to her, silhouetted against the afternoon light. The room was spartan, masculine. A strategist’s room. Maps, weapons, scrolls. No comfort.
“You summoned, General?” she said, her voice thankfully steady.
“You came,” he said, not turning.
“Would it have mattered if I hadn’t?”
“Yes.” Finally, he faced her. He was in simpler robes today, dark blue, his hair pulled back. He looked more like the ruthless soldier he was, less the polished courtier. “I would have found you.”
She lifted her chin. “Arrogant.”
“Accurate.” He crossed the room, stopping just before her. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his eyes drinking in every detail of her face as if checking for damage. “Lou Yao is with the Minister of Works all afternoon.”
“You have him watched.”
“I have everything that concerns you watched.” He reached out then, one finger tracing the line of her jaw. “Tell me to stop. Tell me you wish to return to your simple life and your gentle husband. Say the words, and this ends. The carriage will take you home. You will never see me again.”
She knew it was a lie. A part of him, perhaps. But the larger, darker part of him would never let her go. Still, he was giving her the choice. The illusion of control. It made her brave.
“All that planning,” she whispered, stepping into him, until her breasts brushed his chest. “And you still need me to say it?”
A fire lit in his eyes. He grabbed the back of her neck and kissed her, a deep, consuming plunge that tasted of desperation and green tea. This time, she didn’t hesitate. Her hands clawed at his robes, pulling at the sash, pushing the heavy fabric from his shoulders. He did the same, his movements urgent but deft, until her outer layers were a pool of silk on the polished floor.
He walked her backward toward the large, hard bed platform. “Last time was in a carriage. Like thieves. This time,” he growled against her mouth, biting her lip, “this time, I take my time.”
He laid her down. The covers were sleek and cool. He didn’t join her immediately. He stood beside the bed, his eyes roaming over her body in her thin under-robe. “Open it,” he commanded.
Her fingers trembled slightly on the tie. She did it slowly, letting the fabric fall open, revealing herself to his gaze. The cold air, his hot look—it was more intimate than any touch.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the crude word shattering the room’s formality. He shrugged off his own remaining clothes. She’d only seen him in fragments before, in the dark. Now, in the grey afternoon light, he was breathtaking. All lean muscle and old scars, and his cock, thick and fully erect, jutting from his body. He was magnificent, and he knew it.
He knelt on the bed, crawling over her. He kissed her neck, her collarbones, took a nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, his tongue circling the peak until she cried out. His hand slid down her stomach, through the nest of curls, finding her wet and ready.
“Always so ready for me,” he muttered, pushing two fingers inside her. She arched, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. “Does he make you this wet? Does he know what you sound like when you’re about to come?”
“Stop talking about him,” she moaned, her hips lifting to meet his hand.
“Why? Does it remind you that you’re being a very bad wife?” He added a third finger, stretching her. The burn was delicious. “Tell me what you are.”
“Yours,” she gasped, the admission ripped from her. “Gods, just yours.”
That broke him. He withdrew his hand, positioned himself at her entrance. He pushed in, not with a brutal thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that filled her inch by agonizing inch. They both groaned, a ragged, duet of relief. He sank all the way in, his hips flush against hers, and paused, his forehead damp against hers.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She opened her eyes. His were black, consumed.
He began to move. Long, deep, dragging strokes that lit every nerve. She wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust. The pace was relentless, but controlled. He was watching her, studying every flicker of pleasure on her face.
“You like this,” he stated.
“Yes.”
“You like me fucking you like this.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I like you fucking me,” she panted, the filthiness of the words on her tongue sparking something new in her belly. A coil of pure, wicked heat.
A grin, sharp and predatory, touched his lips. “Good.”
He shifted then, rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him in one fluid motion. She straddled him, his cock buried deep inside her. The new position made her gasp. She felt him even more profoundly.
“Your turn,” he said, his hands settling on her hips. “Ride me. Show me what you need.”
For a moment, she froze, suspended. This was power. This was vulnerability. His eyes were heavy-lidded, trusting her with this. It ignited her. She planted her hands on his hard chest and began to move. Tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, she rose and fell, finding a rhythm that made her see stars. She threw her head back, her hair tumbling down her back. She could feel his gaze on her throat, on her breasts bouncing with each movement.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice gravel. His thumbs dug into her hips, guiding her, helping her grind down in a tight circle. “Take what you want from me. Use me.”
She did. She moved faster, chasing her pleasure, her own breaths becoming desperate sobs. She looked down at him. His control was slipping. His jaw was clenched, his neck corded with strain. Seeing the great General Ling Buyi undone beneath her was the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever known.
“I’m close,” she warned, her movements becoming erratic.
“Not yet.” He suddenly sat up, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight against him as he stood from the bed, still buried inside her. She cried out, her legs locking around his waist. He walked them to a nearby pillar, pressing her back against the cold wood.
“Hold on,” he gritted out.
He fucked her then, standing, her weight supported by the pillar and his arms. The force was brutal, each drive pounding her into the unyielding surface. It was overwhelming. The friction, the depth, the sheer animal claiming of it.
“Now,” he snarled. “Come for me now.”
The command, the perfect angle, the feel of him pounding into her very core—it shattered her. Her climax ripped through her, violent and silent, her body clamping around him in endless, pulsating waves. He followed with a raw, guttural shout, pumping into her, his own release hot and endless. He shuddered against her, his big body going rigid with pleasure.
They stayed like that for long minutes, pinned between the pillar and his weight, breathing in ragged unison. Slowly, he softened inside her. Gently, he extracted himself and carried her, boneless, back to the bed.
He fetched a warm cloth and cleaned her with a tenderness that contrasted violently with what they’d just done. He pulled a fur cover over them both and gathered her against his side. Her head rested on his chest, listening to the slow, strong beat of his heart.
She traced a old, thin scar that ran across his ribs. “You were right,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.
“About?”
“It wasn’t enough.”
His arm tightened around her. In the quiet, his hand stroked her hair. The light faded from the window. She knew she should get up, should return before she was missed. But for now, in this secret room, with the smell of their sex in the air and his skin under her fingers, she let the world wait.