"Tell us how," Mingyu answered, his voice roughened by restraint.
Xinying took Yaozu's wrist and drew his hand between her thighs, guiding his fingers to where she was still warm from Mingyu's mouth.
He groaned—barely—when he felt the proof of her, then settled into a rhythm that learned from what Mingyu had taught and insisted on his own signature—a steadier pace, the patience of shadow turning into substance.
Mingyu watched the pulse in her throat jump under the next stroke and stroked her hair back, his palm sliding to the nape of her neck before he kissed her again, softer this time, like a welcome home.
When she tugged at his sash he lifted his hips just enough to make it easy, a man uncaring whether the knot saved face in the morning.
The robe slid of his body, the fabric whispering its own relief.
