The bed curtains fluttered as the man embraced the woman with a deep bow, his coarse knuckles embedded in her delicate skin.
The two were tightly sealed together, leaving no space in between.
After Li Xianyun had adjusted, Yelu Yan began to move.
Rising and falling.
Drifting and sinking.
Without end or reprieve.
Li Xianyun clung tightly to Yelu Yan's muscular shoulders as if she held onto solid rock.
Her small hands were slender and delicate, with neatly trimmed nails that glistened in the warm yellow light.
Beneath the fingertips of the small hands was the man's wheat-colored skin.
On it were faint red scratches—marks left by Li Xianyun's nails in moments of unbearable sensation.
Yet the man on top of her seemed unaware of the pain, single-mindedly advancing towards his goal.
Tirelessly.
From within the bed curtains came the woman's soft and tender voice.
But that voice sounded as if it were coming from a carriage, fractured and disjointed with each jolt and bounce.
