The air in the small, rented bedchamber had grown thick, heavy with the scent of burning incense and the far more potent, intoxicating aroma of aroused female ambition clashing with primal male dominance.
Wang Jian knew, with the cold certainty of a master strategist watching an enemy army walk into a fatal ravine, that the Rubicon had been crossed. The moment his hands had moved from the 'medical' positions on her abdomen to the sacred, forbidden territory of her breasts and between her thighs, there was no turning back.
There was no plausible deniability left. No "oops, my hand slipped during the healing trance" excuse that could possibly work on a woman as intelligent and experienced as Sect Mistress Lianhua. She wasn't a naive outer sect disciple who could be tricked into believing this was standard medical procedure.
