small, dark tangle of her sex, and felt desire wash over him so fiercely, so overpoweringly, he wanted to cry out.
Timidly he put out his hand, caressing her flank and then her breast, touching the dark brown nipple tenderly, as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever touched. She was watching him, her smile tender, almost painful now. Then, softly, she placed her hands upon his hips and pushed her face forward.
He moved closer, his eyes closed, his body melting. His hands caressed her shoulders, finding them so smooth, so warm they seemed unreal, while her lips against his were soft and wet and hot, like desire itself, their sweetness blinding him.
She reached down, releasing him, then drew him down on top of her. At once he was spilling his seed, even as he entered her. He cried out, feeling her shudder beneath him. And when he looked at her again he saw how changed her eyes were, how different her mouth – a simple gash of wanting now that he was inside her.
That look inflamed him, made him spasm again, then lie still on top of her.
They lay there a long while, then, as one, they stirred, noticing how awkwardly they lay, their bodies sprawled across the steps.
He stood and tucked himself in, aware of how incongruous the action seemed, then reached down to help her up, unable to take his eyes from her nakedness.
Saying nothing, she led him through into the bridal room. There she undressed him and led him to the bath and washed him, ignoring his arousal, putting him off until she was ready for him. Then, finally, they lay there on the low, wide bed, naked, facing each other, their lips meeting for tiny sips of kisses, their hands tenderly caressing each other’s bodies.
‘When did you know?’ she asked, her eyes never leaving his.
‘When I was eight,’ he said and laughed softly, as if he knew it was madness.
For more than half his young life he had loved her. And here she was, his wife, his lover. Eight, almost nine years his senior. Half a lifetime older than him.
For a time she was silent, her eyes narrowed, watching him. Then, at last, she spoke. ‘How strange. Perhaps I should have known.’ She smiled and moved closer, kissing him.
Yes , he thought, releasing her, then watching her again, seeing the small movements of her lashes, of the skin about her eyes, the line of her mouth. Cloud motion in the eyes, it seemed, the bones of her face moulded and remoulded constantly. He was fascinated by her. Mesmerized. He felt he could lie there for ever and never leave this room, this intimacy.
They made love again, slowly this time, Fei Yen leading him, guiding him, it seemed, bringing him to a climax more exquisite than the last, more painful in its intensity.
He lay there afterwards, watching the darkness in her face, the sudden colour in her cheeks and at her neck, and knew he would always want her. ‘I love you,’ he said finally, shaking his head slowly, as if he could not believe it. He had said the words so often in his head. Had imagined himself saying them to her. And now…
‘I know,’ she said, kissing him again. Then, relaxing, she settled down beside him, her head nestling into the fold of his arm, her cheek pressed soft and warm against his chest.
Chapter 44
CONFLICTING VOICES
L i Yuan woke early and, loath to disturb her, went to his desk on the far side of the room. He sat there in the tight circle of the lamp’s light, looking across at her, entranced by the vision of her sleeping form. Then, stirring himself, he took paper from the drawer and, after mixing water and ink from the ink block, began, writing the words in a neat, unhesitant hand down the page, right to left.
Hot wings, perfumed like cinnamon,
Beat about me, black as the moonless night.
I heard your splendid cry in the silence,
And knew the phoenix fed upon my heart.
He dipped the brush again, then looked across, realizing she was watching him.
‘What are you doing, my love?’
He felt a tiny thrill, a shiver
Timidly he put out his hand, caressing her flank and then her breast, touching the dark brown nipple tenderly, as if it were the most fragile thing he had ever touched. She was watching him, her smile tender, almost painful now. Then, softly, she placed her hands upon his hips and pushed her face forward.
He moved closer, his eyes closed, his body melting. His hands caressed her shoulders, finding them so smooth, so warm they seemed unreal, while her lips against his were soft and wet and hot, like desire itself, their sweetness blinding him.
She reached down, releasing him, then drew him down on top of her. At once he was spilling his seed, even as he entered her. He cried out, feeling her shudder beneath him. And when he looked at her again he saw how changed her eyes were, how different her mouth – a simple gash of wanting now that he was inside her.
That look inflamed him, made him spasm again, then lie still on top of her.
They lay there a long while, then, as one, they stirred, noticing how awkwardly they lay, their bodies sprawled across the steps.
He stood and tucked himself in, aware of how incongruous the action seemed, then reached down to help her up, unable to take his eyes from her nakedness.
Saying nothing, she led him through into the bridal room. There she undressed him and led him to the bath and washed him, ignoring his arousal, putting him off until she was ready for him. Then, finally, they lay there on the low, wide bed, naked, facing each other, their lips meeting for tiny sips of kisses, their hands tenderly caressing each other’s bodies.
‘When did you know?’ she asked, her eyes never leaving his.
‘When I was eight,’ he said and laughed softly, as if he knew it was madness.
For more than half his young life he had loved her. And here she was, his wife, his lover. Eight, almost nine years his senior. Half a lifetime older than him.
For a time she was silent, her eyes narrowed, watching him. Then, at last, she spoke. ‘How strange. Perhaps I should have known.’ She smiled and moved closer, kissing him.
Yes , he thought, releasing her, then watching her again, seeing the small movements of her lashes, of the skin about her eyes, the line of her mouth. Cloud motion in the eyes, it seemed, the bones of her face moulded and remoulded constantly. He was fascinated by her. Mesmerized. He felt he could lie there for ever and never leave this room, this intimacy.
They made love again, slowly this time, Fei Yen leading him, guiding him, it seemed, bringing him to a climax more exquisite than the last, more painful in its intensity.
He lay there afterwards, watching the darkness in her face, the sudden colour in her cheeks and at her neck, and knew he would always want her. ‘I love you,’ he said finally, shaking his head slowly, as if he could not believe it. He had said the words so often in his head. Had imagined himself saying them to her. And now…
‘I know,’ she said, kissing him again. Then, relaxing, she settled down beside him, her head nestling into the fold of his arm, her cheek pressed soft and warm against his chest.
Chapter 44
CONFLICTING VOICES
L i Yuan woke early and, loath to disturb her, went to his desk on the far side of the room. He sat there in the tight circle of the lamp’s light, looking across at her, entranced by the vision of her sleeping form. Then, stirring himself, he took paper from the drawer and, after mixing water and ink from the ink block, began, writing the words in a neat, unhesitant hand down the page, right to left.
Hot wings, perfumed like cinnamon,
Beat about me, black as the moonless night.
I heard your splendid cry in the silence,
And knew the phoenix fed upon my heart.
He dipped the brush again, then looked across, realizing she was watching him.
‘What are you doing, my love?’
He felt a tiny thrill, a shiver
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