The lanternlight flickered softly in the stillness of the room, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls. The fragrance of lotus and powdered amber hung in the air, a scent Lin Mu had come to associate with nights like this—nights of quiet shame.
Xue Lan lay atop the bed, naked beneath the sheer throw of translucent silk that she hadn't bothered to secure. Her arms rested behind her head, her long black hair spread across the pillow like ink spilled across snow. Her legs were parted naturally, casually, as if already expecting someone else to fill the space between them.
She wasn't glowing from sex—not yet.
She was glowing in anticipation of it.
But not with her husband.
With another man.
Lin Mu knelt on the polished floor beside the bed, a small ceramic vial of warmed oil resting in his palm. He had stripped his outer robe hours ago. His underrobes now clung to him with a sheen of sweat, and beneath the thin fabric, his cock throbbed stiffly—betraying him with every pulse.
It wasn't for him.
It never would be.
And that, more than anything, made him harder.
He bowed his head.
"I'm ready," he whispered.
Xue Lan looked down at him, a soft smile teasing the corner of her lips. She didn't speak—not yet. She didn't need to. Her posture said everything: relaxed, expectant, superior. She was the one being offered. He was just the hands that would present her.
Lin Mu began with her feet.
He poured oil into his palms and worked in slow circles, massaging each toe, kissing the soles of her feet reverently. She twitched slightly at his touch, not from pleasure, but from relaxation. From confidence. She was already comfortable in this role—his wife as the treasure passed from man to man, and he the keeper of that treasure.
"I want him to feel how soft I am," she said quietly, almost dreamily. "I want his first thrust to slide in like I was made for him."
Lin Mu nodded.
"I'll make sure of it."
He worked up her calves, then her thighs—pressing slow, careful strokes along her skin, kneading the flesh with shaking hands. Her thighs had bruises still—small, yellowing patches from where Jin Rui had gripped her hips.
Lin Mu kissed each one.
A ritual of reverence.
Or of surrender.
He reached the space between her legs, and her scent reached him before his lips did—musk, heat, wetness. She was aroused already, her folds dark and parted, glistening softly even before he touched her.
She wasn't aroused by him.
She was aroused by the idea of another.
He pressed his lips to her inner thigh.
"I'll prepare you," he said. "He won't have to wait."
She smiled faintly.
"I know."
He opened the second vial—the thinner oil, meant for the most sensitive flesh—and poured a small amount onto his fingertips. His hands trembled.
He reached forward.
Her pussy twitched as he touched her, the slick heat of her folds parting around his first finger.
She gasped softly, but didn't moan.
She was still picturing Yan Zhuo.
Not him.
Lin Mu slid one finger inside her—slow, gentle, deliberate. Her walls clenched lightly, then relaxed, welcoming. Too welcoming.
She was already loose.
He added a second finger.
Her hips tilted slightly.
"Stretch me well," she whispered. "He doesn't seem small."
Lin Mu's eyes closed briefly.
"I know," he whispered.
He pressed deeper.
Each gentle pump of his fingers spread her wider, preparing her to receive someone else. Someone better. Someone whose cock would actually fill her, unlike the shamefully small one pressed hard and untouched beneath his own robes.
He added a third finger.
She gasped.
"Yes," she moaned. "Just like that. Open me."
He obeyed.
His fingers worked steadily, his palm resting against her mound as he gently opened her, sliding oil deep into her folds, watching as her entrance twitched and gaped. Her slickness dripped against his wrist.
"I want him to feel like I was made for him," she said.
"You will," he whispered.
"You'll be there, won't you?" she asked. "Watching while he claims me?"
"Yes."
"You'll kneel. You'll hold me between rounds. Lick me clean."
"I will."
She smiled wider.
"You'll taste his cum inside me."
Lin Mu moaned aloud. His cock throbbed violently inside his robes, but no pleasure accompanied it. Only heat. Only shame.
His face burned red.
"I'm disgusting," he whispered.
She stroked his hair gently.
"No," she said. "You're perfect."
He pressed his lips to her entrance, licking the folds he had just stretched, tasting her readiness, breathing in the scent of a woman about to belong to someone else.
And he trembled.
And he hated himself for loving it.
And he loved her more than ever.