Chapter 6: Vanity Confessions
The hum of the set faded to a dull throb through the door, leaving only the whisper of the air conditioning and the frantic rhythm of her own heart. Jieqiong stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror, trying to see the poised actress, not the woman whose skin still remembered the brand of his hands from two days prior. The bruise on her breast had faded to a faint yellow smudge, a secret she touched in the shower.
A knock, different from her assistant’s—firmer, possessed. She knew before she spoke. “It’s open.”
Yang Yang entered, closing the door softly behind him. The polished mahogany walls seemed to shrink. He was still in his costume, a general’s heavy brocade robe that made his shoulders impossibly broad. He looked like empire and authority. He looked like he owned the room, and everything in it.
“Your collar,” he said, his voice low. “It’s crooked.”
She didn’t turn from the mirror. She watched his reflection approach, a shadow coalescing behind her. His hands came to her shoulders, not to adjust the stiff fabric of her own historical gown, but to settle there, heavy and warm. His thumbs brushed the bare skin of her neck. A shiver, unbidden, traveled her spine.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he stated.
“We’ve had opposite call times.”
His fingers tightened minutely. “Don’t lie to me.” His gaze pinned hers in the glass. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not,” she whispered, but the defiance was thin.
He leaned in, his lips near her ear. “You should be.” His hands slid down from her shoulders, over the silk of her sleeves, until his palms cupped the full weight of her breasts through the gown. The costume was structured, layered, but his touch was insolent, seeking. He found her nipples, already hardened, and rolled them between his fingers. A sharp gasp escaped her, fogging a patch on the mirror.
With a swift, fluid motion, he spun her around to face him. Her back pressed against the cold glass. The lock on the door clicked with a finality that echoed in her bones.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was a thread.
“What I should have done days ago.” His hands went to the intricate closures of her gown, not with patience, but with a focused, destructive intent. Buttons popped, threads snapped. The heavy fabric gaped open. He pushed it roughly down her arms, trapping them at her sides, exposing the plain white modern bra she wore beneath. He made a sound of impatience, a low grunt, and hooked his fingers into the center, tearing the flimsy cotton apart.
Her breasts spilled free, fuller than they seemed under costumes, her nipples a deep pink. He didn’t pause to admire. His hands were on her instantly, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs scraping over the tight peaks. It wasn’t tender. It was a reclaiming.
“You think you can just walk away after that?” he growled, his mouth descending. “After you let me in like that?”
His lips closed around one nipple, sucking hard, pulling it deep into the heat of his mouth. He lavished it with his tongue, then grazed it with his teeth, and she cried out, her head thudding back against the mirror. The sharp pleasure-pain was a lightning strike to her core. He switched to the other, giving it the same rough treatment, his hands never still, squeezing and molding her until she was arching off the mirror, seeking more friction, more of his punishing mouth.
He dropped to his knees. The brocade of his robe pooled on the floor like a puddle of gold. He shoved her torn gown and petticoats up around her waist. Her plain cotton underwear was a stark contrast to the black lace he’d destroyed before. He didn’t bother tearing these. He simply hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked them down her thighs. The cool air of the room hit her wetness, and she flinched.
“Look at you,” he commanded, his eyes blazing up at her. “Dripping for me. And you thought you could avoid this?”
He didn’t give her time to answer. He buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was not an exploration; it was an assault. A flat, broad stroke from her opening to her clit, lapping up her slickness with a grunt of approval. Then he focused, his mouth sealing over her, his tongue spearing inside her, fucking her with it in shallow, urgent thrusts. He was messy, greedy, his nose pressed against her, his stubble scratching her inner thighs. He found her clit and sucked it, hard, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.
“Fuck, Yang Yang!” Her hands, freed from the tangled sleeves, flew to his hair, gripping, not sure if she meant to pull him closer or shove him away. Her hips rolled against his mouth of their own volition.
He pulled back, his chin glistening. “You taste the same. Like mine.” He plunged back in, his tongue delving deeper, drinking from her. The sounds were obscene—wet, sloppy, hungry. He added a finger, then two, curling them inside her, searching. He found the spot and pressed.
The orgasm tore through her violently, a wave of heat and convulsing pressure. She slapped a hand over her own mouth to stifle the scream, her body buckling. He rode it out, his tongue gentling, coaxing every last pulse from her.
As the tremors subsided, he stood. He was immense above her, his own need blatant in the hard line of his erection straining against his trousers. He unfastened them, freeing his cock. It was thick, veined, flushed dark. He stroked it once, his eyes locked on her dazed, ruined expression in the mirror.
He turned her back around, facing the glass. His hand wrapped in her hair, not gently, and tilted her head so she had to watch. “Watch,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “Watch me take what’s mine.”
He guided himself to her entrance, still slick from his mouth and her release. He pushed the head in, a blunt, stretching pressure. Then, with one ruthless thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
She saw her own face contort in the mirror—eyes wide, mouth a shocked ‘O’. She saw him behind her, a conqueror in gold brocade, his face a mask of fierce possession. He held himself there, letting her feel the full, splitting stretch.
Then he moved. He fucked her with a relentless, driving pace, each thrust hammering her against the cool glass. The mirror fogged with her panting breaths. His grip on her hair tightened, keeping her gaze locked on their reflection—on the way her breasts shook with each impact, on the obscene sight of him pistoning in and out of her, on the raw hunger on his face.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he grunted, his movements becoming jerky, desperate.
She was beyond words, reduced to whimpers.
He shook her, just once. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she moaned, the word dragged from the deepest, most surrendered part of her. “I’m yours.”
With a final, deep snarl, he came, his body stiffening against her back, his release flooding her in hot, pulsing jets. He collapsed forward, his forehead against her shoulder, his brocade robe soaking up the sweat from her back.
For a long minute, the only sound was their ragged breathing slowly evening out. The set was still quiet. The world outside the door didn’t exist.
He softened inside her and slipped out. A trickle of their mingled release slid down her inner thigh. He watched it in the mirror, his eyes hazy. Then, with a tenderness that shattered her, he reached around with a clean corner of his own sleeve and gently wiped it away.
He stepped back, fastening his clothes with practiced, silent efficiency. He looked at her reflection—disheveled, gown in tatters, face naked and vulnerable.
“Tonight,” he said again, the word no longer a command, but a promise laced with an unmistakable thread of fear. “My hotel. Room 2417. Come alone.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He unlocked the door and was gone, leaving her staring at the wreck of herself in the glass, the scent of jasmine and sex and him clinging to the air.