(Warning: This content contains mature themes intended for readers aged 18 and above. Reader discretion is advised.)
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Her whisper, barely a breath, barely audible—
"…Yanzhou?"
The name slipped from her lips, fragile and trembling, soaked in disbelief.
But as soon as the words left her mouth, something shifted in him.
He didn't speak.
He couldn't — like a trance.
Yet, something inside him snapped—her voice, soft and uncertain, had unlocked a storm he hadn't even realized he had.
Without a word, without hesitation, he surged forward. The air between them crackled with electricity, and before she could even draw another breath, his mouth crashed onto hers—hot, unrelenting, wild.
Lin Shuyin froze.
His lips moved against hers with a desperation that stole the air from her lungs.
Her eyes widened. Her mind reeled, trying to understand, to make sense — but her body… her body was too slow to catch up.
He kissed her like a man starved, as if he'd been holding back for years and could no longer bear the weight of it. His taste was wine and longing—intoxicating, dizzying.
She gasped, her fingers clutching the sheets as his body hovered over hers, solid and burning. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, and for a moment, she didn't know whether to push him away or pull him closer.
She didn't have the chance to decide.
Her mind buzzed with a thousand questions, a swirl of confusion.
Just as she began to make sense of her surroundings, he broke the kiss.
Lin Shuyin breathed heavily, her body still reeling from the intensity.
"Se—Senior Yanzhou!"
She stammered, unable to form coherent thoughts. Why was he here? What was he doing? Why did he kiss her?
Her mind was a mess, and the alcohol certainly wasn't helping. She took a shaky breath, trying to calm herself.
"Senior Yanzhou! What—"
Before she could finish, he kissed her again—rougher, hungrier. His hand found her jaw, tilting her face to deepen the kiss. The other trailed down her side, his fingers memorizing every curve through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Her heart was a fragile bird, fluttering madly in its cage. Her breath caught between panic and something dangerously close to yearning.
'No…' her mind screamed, 'Not like this…'
But her lips betrayed her.
A moan escaped — small, afraid — and that sound shattered the last thread of restraint inside him.
His kisses deepened. His teeth grazed her lower lip. His tongue demanded entry — and she gave it, helplessly. Her hands, once pushing weakly against his chest, now gripped his shirt, knuckles white, as if trying to anchor herself in the chaos.
Lin Shuyin muffled a sob as fresh tears welled in her eyes. This felt too good to be real. The man she had admired from afar, the one she had loved for years—he was here, right beside her. Loving her. Kissing her. Worshipping her body like she was everything he had ever wanted.
But he wasn't truly here.
He wasn't himself.
He didn't even know what he was doing.
He kissed her again. Slower. Deeper.
His hand tangled with hers. His forehead rested against hers.
She could feel everything — his ragged breath, the tension in his muscles, the hunger he was trying to suppress. His moan against her ears.
Because this wasn't just lust in his touch.
It was anguish. Desire. Something raw and reckless.
She tried to resist again. Her hands pushed against his chest, her lips parted in a soft gasp — a silent plea for space, for clarity.
But he didn't stop.
His kiss deepened, his tongue slipping past her lips, tangling with hers, claiming her with brutal tenderness.
It was wrong—every kiss, every touch, every trembling breath between them. All of it was wrong… and yet, it felt so right.
Tears welled up her eyes. She didn't want this. She wanted him, but not in this state. Drunk! Unconscious!
But her resistance was fading fast.
She was drowning.
In him.
In the heat of his breath, the scent of wine, the way his touch left her skin burning.
"Yanzhou…" she whispered again, this time not in protest — but in disbelief. In need.
And something in him responded to that voice like it was a lifeline.
He pulled back, just a breath away, eyes locking onto hers.
Dark. Intense. Haunted.
He didn't speak. Didn't need to.
His thumb brushed her cheek. His gaze burned into her, searching, asking, even if no words came. And what he saw in her — the confusion, the tears, the ache — seemed to echo his own.
His hand slid under her shirt, fingers caressing the dip of her waist. Her body arched at the contact. Her skin flushed under his touch.
He bent down again — slower this time — and kissed her jaw, her neck, the delicate hollow of her collarbone. Each kiss was a plea. A question. A request without words.
Can I have this? Let me have you.
Lin Shuyin's hands trembled. Her mind was screaming, but her body… her body remembered. Every silent moment, she had loved him from afar. Every ache she had buried.
She answered without speaking — fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. Take me, she consented.
His touch changed.
Less frantic now. Reverent. Like he was worshipping her — or breaking with her.
Her shirt was gone before she realized it. His hand spread over her ribcage, thumb brushing the swell of her breast. Her breath caught.
And he still said nothing.
His eyes were distant, clouded—like he was moving through a dream. Yet he held her like she was the only thing real, his touch reverent, as if drawn to her by instinct alone.
Their bare skin met, and Lin Shuyin gasped at the contact — heat meeting heat, no space left between them. He was trembling. So was she.
Her fingers slid around his neck, pulling him closer. Her lips met his—hesitant at first, trembling with doubt, then softening, yielding, until hunger overtook her. She kissed him back, pouring every buried feeling, every unsaid word, into that one desperate, stolen moment.
He stilled—for half a heartbeat—his gaze falling on her bare form, bathed in silver moonlight.
Then something in him broke.
He devoured her—pure instinct, wild and urgent.
His hands roamed her body with fierce, aching hunger. Her back arched into him without thought, responding to the fire he ignited. His mouth left hers, trailing heated kisses along her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, each touch burning through the haze clouding his mind.
She trembled beneath him, soft, breathy sighs slipping from her lips—"Yan…" a whisper that seemed to draw him closer, pull him deeper into the moment.
His hands explored every inch of her—rough yet reverent, as if afraid she might vanish if he held too lightly. His lips pressed again and again, dragging her deeper into a fevered haze, like a drowning soul grasping for air.
Her quiet, tender sounds—barely more than a breath—stirred something primal in him. The way she murmured his name, "Zhou…", so fragile and sincere, stoked the fire he could no longer contain.
His kisses trailed lower—wet, searing—down her throat to the curve of her collarbone. Every press sent tremors through her, slow and desperate, like he was tasting a forbidden pleasure he couldn't resist.
She gasped softly, "Yanzhou…"—the name falling from her lips like a prayer, a tether.
Her skin burned beneath his touch; her thoughts dissolved into waves of heat and sensation.
One hand slipped down, parting her thighs with aching intent, while the other found her breast—warm, firm, worshipful. He molded her like something sacred, guided by instinct rather than thought. His mouth moved to the other breast, tongue circling, teasing, teeth grazing before sucking softly then harder—drawing sounds from her that were raw and real, unguarded and intimate.
Her breath caught, fingers tightening on the sheets as she surrendered—falling fast, tethered only by the heat of his body and the rhythm of his touch.
His hand moved again, slow but sure, sliding away the last barrier between them. She lay bare—exposed and vulnerable, utterly his to see, to claim, to feel.
And he did.
His fingers glided over her core—wet, trembling with fierce, aching need. Each stroke was hungry and raw, like he'd been starving for this secret his whole life.
She gasped, arching into him, breath catching as a soft, trembling moan escaped her lips. "Yan…"
He pressed deeper, driven by instinct—urgent, relentless. Waves of heat crashed through her, her fingers clutching the sheets, body trembling with pleasure.
"Zhou…" she whispered, voice barely audible, lost in the fire he ignited.
His touch was both savage and worshipful—claiming her utterly, without hesitation.
"Yanzhou…" she breathed, barely a whisper, "please…"
It wasn't a plea for mercy. It was surrender.
He stopped—just for a moment. A flicker of emotion crossed his face, something sharp and raw that cracked through the lust like lightning through a storm.
Then he moved.