Work Text:
Maomao sneezed as bits of dried herb wafted through the air and into her nose. She scowled irritably, staring down at the worktable in front of her. How quickly her life had changed. She had what she wanted back, didn’t she?
Since their return from the Shi family compound, Maomao’s world had changed. Not only had there been children to deal with and rehome, but the delivery of Gyokuyou’s child had left Maomao unemployed yet again. That was the sort of thing that happened when a woman birthed a son and was made Empress, after all. An empress didn't need someone like Maomao; no royal did. She'd vanished back to Verdigris House with little pomp and no ceremony, collecting back-pay and slinking out before Master Jinshi could argue the point.
With the birth of the Crown Prince and Gyokuyou's ascension, the capital had fallen into revelry. Celebrations stretched from the most menial of farmers and district on the fringe of the city to the Rear Palace itself. Some might envy Gyokuyou her new power, but few emperors settled for just one son—and while her son might be Crown Prince now, nothing said it would have to stay that way. She'd accepted one crown and ten thousand new threats.
That was not a worry she needed to have. She pinched herself, shaking out the thoughts. She had everything she wanted. She was back in the pleasure district, didn't have to keep her head down and mouth shut about Shisui, and definitely didn't have to risk turning around and seeing the Son of Heaven make an unexpected visit. And she definitely didn't have Master Jinshi, whoever he really was, lurking at her elbow, dragging her into escapades far above her pay grade. It's exactly what she'd wanted.
Right?
Still, she glanced over her shoulder. Just to be sure.
The doorway to her apothecary’s workshop in Verdigris House was empty. Chou-u was out making friends—or trouble—rather than peeking into the multitude of drawers in her wooden storage shelves. She’d asked him to find lizard-tails; perhaps he was actually doing what she’d asked, for once. None of her sisters were down at this hour; they’d all been up late, playing and singing and otherwise entertaining as the Princesses were wont to do. With all the revelry, they might not have gone to sleep til dawn. The madam hadn’t even bothered to stick her head in and bother Maomao.
No sign of Gaoshun. No sign of Jinshi. Everything was just as it should be.
So why did it bother her so?
She inhaled the peppery scent of the dried herbs she was grinding—deliberately this time, avoiding another sneeze—and pushed away the strange emotion trying to curl through her. She wasn’t lonely. She wasn’t curious. Everything was just as she wanted it to be. That was what mattered. Her herbs were here, she had several small strings of cash from her employment at the palace, and work to keep her busy. Thinking about the people of the royal palace would get her nowhere. That life was beyond her now, unless her old man invited her back. Luomen had remained in the palace.Perhaps he’d come visit her, or send a summons for her to come visit him. It would be nice to see some of her acquaintances (friends was still far too presumptuous) again, if circumstances permitted.
Not that she needed to see Jinshi again, but if he happened to appear, she wouldn’t be upset.
Probably.
She slammed down the pestle again, reminding herself of the task at hand. There was always a need for medicine in Verdigris House, and the celebrations had put a significant dent into the supplies for headaches and upset stomachs. Everyone overindulged in times like this, and the more they could offer their clients (and upcharge accordingly), the happier the madam was.
Things would be much better if it just wasn’t so boring.
At least in the palace, she’d had tasks to do every day, even though she’d often wished for things to be more boring and predictable. She was making the same medicines day in and out now, and her fingers—and mind—itched for something new.
“Stop,” she said aloud, half a mutter. She turned again to be entirely certain her doorway was empty and she was alone. The only thing worse than talking to herself would have been someone here to make a quip about it.
She ought to do something. Something productive, not just busy work. Something to keep her mind moving so she didn’t do anything she might regret.
It would do well to continue to cultivate Master Jinshi’s friendship; there was no telling when she might need a favor from him one day, or when it would be beneficial to have him (whatever, whoever, he actually was) as a solid ally. And Gaoshun was someone she did enjoy the company of; if she could do something to improve his life, all the better.
Perhaps she could make a medicine. Something for Master Jinshi that would benefit Gaoshun as well. It might help Jinshi with all the paperwork he was no doubt having to deal with. He'd shown a skill with it in the Rear Palace, and in her second term of service it had been made clear that he was a bureaucrat of no uncommon skill. With whatever was happening with the Shi territories, he would no doubt be in the middle of it, working himself half to death.
His propensity for overwork wouldn’t change. And perhaps she could send the medicine through the old man; he’d verify them as safe for consumption and make sure Jinshi got them. She wouldn’t need to worry.
It was an excellent plan.
One of the apprentice courtesans began practicing pipa, the notes carrying down the hall. Maomao winced; one of the strings was out of tune. The painful twanging accompanied her as she moved through her workshop, pulling down some of this herb and some of that. Most of what she wanted was easily within her reach, but one of the ingredients she wanted was a herb that had to be kept out of reach of any but the most skilled. Too little and it would do nothing, too much and it could make someone’s heart seize in their body and stop working. Just enough would increase blood flow, and increased blood flow for focused concentration and energy was what she wanted.
This was easy enough to sink into and forget, setting some herbs aside, cleaning her equipment, and then grinding and processing all the ones she’d selected. The out-of-tune pipa stopped abruptly, resuming a few minutes later properly tuned. The melody provided a nice counterpoint to the steady grinding of stone against stone.
Maomao paused partway through, rocking back slightly on her heels and frowning. She needed to calculate dosage—which meant calculating weight. Jinshi was not a small man; his hands nearly engulfed hers when they touched, and he was broad-shouldered and significantly taller. He would weigh many jin more than she did. Was it worth sending a message to Gaoshun and asking for his weight? No—that would raise more questions that she didn’t want to consider.
When she’d fallen on him in the cavern, she’d had extended exposure to his body. Her fingers twitched at the memory of contact with the thing she'd tried so hard to think of as a frog. Adequate, she'd called it, unwilling to allow herself to believe it to be anything else. It was more than adequate from all the things she understood from what her sisters had said. She pinched herself again. Now was not the time to think about his frog.
Dressing him to sneak into the city…that was safer ground, surely. Her mind filled with the image of his body and the clinging fabric, or without anything on at all, the muscle overlaid by delicate skin. The warmth of it under her hands—his circulation was usually adequate. He’d been able to carry her, too—he was no waeakling, so she would need to account for the muscle mass over fat, and not think at all about the fact that he’d cradled her body against his and carried her across half the palace compound when she’d been injured after his attempted murder.
He was tall, strong, and in good shape. That was what she needed to remember, not the feeling of his hands or body against hers.
In the end, she had what she wanted, measuring out amounts of this and that carefully into the wooden medicinal lozenge molds. The herbs for increased blood flow combined with others for increased stamina and endurance. It might not be ideal for preventing overwork and exhaustion, but they would at least—she hoped—make it less onerous. The last additions were for clear thoughts and focus, which would allow him to avoid distraction and encourage a singleminded attention to detail to work through the projects at hand.
It would have to do.
The last step—possibly her favorite—was the only thing left. She would need to test the medicine she’d concocted.
She grinned and spun around once, clapping her hands with delight. A new medicine of her creation. It wasn’t a poison, but it was progress. She had no warm water to drink with it, so settled for pouring herself a small glass of cold water and swallowing one of the dark brown pills. It would likely take at least an hour before she saw any effects.
Maomao took advantage of wait, busying herself with cleaning her workspace and returning to the headache medicine. It didn’t require much thought, which was helpful given the need to monitor herself for symptoms and side effects. As she worked, she reached for one of the fans she kept for her small fires, ones needed to heat water for decoctions or cook down ingredients so they could be made into pills or pastes. The room was warmer than it had any right to be without any of the fires burning. What had happened? With a grumble, she fanned herself, strands of hair flying as she tied to make some kind of breeze to alleviate the heat.
It did little. Irritated, she set the fan down and loosened the collars of her jacket and shirt. They were neatly crossed over and tied as she did every day, but for whatever reason the fabric now clung to her, the touch almost irritating with the heat. This wasn’t even spring, let alone summer! Why was she so accursed warm? Had Chou-u done something? She wouldn’t put it past the mischievous wretch.
Jinshi drank tea when he worked. Perhaps she should make herself a cup and see if there were any adverse reactions. It would help the dryness in her throat and in her mouth that had her tongue chasing across her lips like one of the worst days in winter. Tea would help her thirst and also let her see if there would be any interactions with it. The idea of adding more heat to the room annoyed her; would it be worth going for something stronger? It would be preferable, certainly, but even the old madam would make faces and have something choice to say if she went looking for alcohol at this hour.
Irritation prickled as she fussed, pouring water into a sturdy iron kettle and setting it on the small stove. She picked up the fan again, waving it in sharp, short gestures to get the slumbering embers first to wake then to dance with flames. The water would boil soon enough.
While she waited, she slipped off her jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. She was sure her hair was sticking to her face. A calming tea, she decided; chamomile and something else. Or perhaps some of the headache medicine she should have been finishing up. That would be the best plan; by the time she finished packaging individual dosages of the headache medicine, the water should be hot and she could make herself something soothing and enjoy it. And then if she were having any reaction to the medicine for Jinshi, she would know and note her observations.
Humming quietly, Maomao surrendered to the familiar motions of work. She measured out ground herbs and folded them into small paper packets, twisting the ends, setting them into their designated drawer in her apothecary’s cabinet. The room grew hotter, the fabric of her blouse and her undergarments pricking and irritating her skin. Working in the nude, even in Verdigris House, would be poor form.
Maybe she could go take a bath. It might mean sharing with some of the younger girls, unless her sisters were taking advantage of it at this time, but… She could, if she must. Had she dropped something down her shirt and skirt? Had someone played a joke on her this morning? Had—
“Maomao? What are you doing, dressed like—”
She whirled around at that beautiful voice, heat flaring even stronger in her cheeks. What was he doing here?
There was no mistaking Jinshi. She’d grown almost intimately familiar with him, the shoulders she’d last seen encased in armor now back in familiar court robes. He was not dressed in the greatest of his court finery today, but the more bland attire he tended to that allowed him to escape into the city with somewhat less of an entourage. Today’s was limited to Gaoshun, hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, his usually mild and imperturbable expression now gone wide-eyed and shocked.
Jinshi’s face was inscrutable behind a mask. A mask—
Her mind lurched abruptly and rapidly toward the last mask she’d worn, the kitsune mask she’d worn and decorated with Shisui in the Shi territory. This was nothing like that one, instead a fine oval with little to recommend it save for its nearly-full coverage of his face. There would be no guessing his identity behind it. Not, at least, unless someone knew him well, and seen him as intimately as she had, as often as she had. She knew those shoulders and the planes of his chest from when she’d helped dress him for his undercover adventure into the city, knew the way his hair felt between her fingers, and why was her heartbeat jumping like a cricket?
“Master Jinshi,” she said, impressed with how composed her voice sounded. “This is…unexpected.”
“I’m still waiting for an answer to my question.” His voice was tight, fingers flexing at his sides. Her eyes slid over him to Gaoshun, to the way Gaoshun tapped at his chest. Her chest? Her—oh, her shirt. Lack of jacket.
“You didn’t ask a question,” she said, unwilling to allow an inaccurate statement to go unchallenged. “You stopped partway through. The room is hot. Almost unbearably so. And since I was working and did not expect visitors…”
Jinshi lifted a hand to the mask, removing it to reveal that nigh-celestial face. It was an excellent thing she was as composed as she was, as immune to his charms as she had become. If any other woman (or possibly man) had been standing here, they would have been struck by his beauty. The scar along his cheek, the one he’d taken coming after her, was healing nicely. She approached, reaching a hand up to his face and tracing along his skin just beyond the path the sword had taken. His face was so smooth, so perfect, under her hands. Why hadn’t she spent more time touching it? He must surely use lotions and salves and rinses to keep it this way. Such supple flesh deserved more attention, and would be the kind of thing that might help healing of scars. She should ask him what he used. Get samples. Compare and see if it behaved differently on his face to anywhere else.
“Neat stitches,” Maomao said, fingers lingering there, pressing herself closer, curling her other hand around the back of his neck and urging him down to her level. She couldn’t bear to release the other hand.
“Yes,” he ground out. “But they would have been better with your tending.” And there was a hint of the petulance she’d grown so familiar with. “Though I worry, because this room is decidedly not hot. Warm, perhaps, but barely so. And you are half naked!” His voice dropped, almost a low rumble. “And you are very…close, apothecary.”
She was rather pressed up against him now, true, but she couldn’t quite find it in herself to care about proximity. Heat pulsed between her thighs, sending vinelike tendrils through her body. There was something particularly pleasant about the firmness of his body against hers. Her nerves hummed, delight mixed with a faint consternation at his disapproval. “I am without my jacket, certainly. I’ll put it back on if it offends your sentiments so much, Master Jinshi.” Regretfully, she dropped her hands, taking a step back and beginning to turn.
His hand shot out to seize her wrist, stilling her movement before she could turn completely. He was remarkably strong, his grip searing her and sending jolts along her nerves. The warmth of the room seemed to slide under her skin at the contact, pressing through muscle to lie against her very bones. “You needn’t do that. I came to speak with you—to see you—and I don’t want you to”—his voice caught in his throat—“stand on ceremony. Not on my account.”
Maomao narrowed her eyes. He’d hardly complained about ceremony before, taking it as was his due. “I can offer you tea,” she said, wetting her lips again. Was she mistaken, or did his eyes track her tongue?
Mistaken, surely.
“Did we interrupt you, Xiaomao?” asked Gaoshun.
“I was working, but I am not wholly used to being uninterrupted.” She darted a glance at Jinshi, noted the faintly glassy look to his eyes, the shadows beneath them, the way his free hand was going white-knuckled while the other tightened around her wrist. It was strangely pleasant, his hand there; where else might it be? How else might it feel on her skin, gripping her shoulder, her waist, her hips? Or even elsewhere—there were a warrior’s calluses on his hands, and how might those feel brushing across her body?
She blinked. Where had that thought come from?
“I came to speak with you,” Jinshi said, “and see how you fared. I find things far less interesting without your company. There are few people as insightful as you.” His eyes darted to Gaoshun. There was a message between them then, one she couldn’t read—more of that palace nonsense—and the man stepped into the hall, shutting the door firmly behind him. Nothing would get through that door with him on guard outside it, not even the madam, until Gaoshun opened it. Maomao had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t until Jinshi said whatever it was he meant to say.
She loosened the neck of her shirt again, fingers brushing at the laces of her skirt. Her skin was itching, she was sure of it. Too much of the circulation-enhancer, that must be it. She dipped her head, fingers fumbling with the ribbon of her overskirt, as something brushed at her neck. A moment later she felt teeth against her nape.
The shock of it sent lightning through her body, all of her alert to his proximity and touch. Her world exploded before abruptly contracting again to the place she was being bitten—yes, bitten—by Jinshi. Her knees wobbled. Her overskirt slid to the floor. She felt more than heard the growl from behind her, a rumble that brushed across her skin and made her body tighten in a way she had rarely experienced before.
Her sisters had made certain she was no fool when it came to matters of the body and of pleasure. This she recognized, as unfamiliar as it was. One of Jinshi’s hands dropped to her hip. That broad hand tightened there, holding her in place as he bit down harder, open-mouthed and hungry. The pain she expected to feel was somehow being transmuted to pleasure.
Good sense would have her asking questions. Why was he biting her? Why was he holding her here? Why had he come?
Instead, her body was focusing entirely on him, on the weight of his hand and the heat of his mouth, the delicate sweep of his tongue against her skin, the pounding leaping pulse of her body with every touch, the way something rhythmic was pulsing deep in her belly.
What was happening?
She rolled her body against him, catlike, leaning into the touch. This didn’t itch, this didn’t bother her, this overwhelmed the heat and itch of her clothes, gave her something to focus on. Her mind raced, throat working to swallow, letting out a moan instead that would have done Pairin proud. It felt good, her toes curling with pleasure as his tongue slid again across her skin, as his mouth moved lower, nipping gently. She pressed her thighs together, pleasure rolling through her in a way it never had before. All she could think about was the increasing need to have him touching her, that mouth, those fingers, all over her body.
Her stomach lurched. Jinshi’s mouth froze on her, drawing away slowly. He spun her around in front of him, those brilliant eyes looking down at her.
Worried. Not angry—frustrated, perhaps?—but worry in the crease of those eyebrows and those beautiful lips had turned into a pout before they opened into an ‘o’ of horror that would not have been amiss on Meimei’s own sweet face. That perfect ‘o’ would fit perfectly over one of her nipples, she was sure.
“Maomao, what have you done?”
She twisted, torn between the desire to drag his head to her throat again, down to her breasts, to find out what a bite there would feel like for comparative analysis, and the increasing enfolding realization of what she had done.
The medicine.
The medicine she’d made for him was made for him. For Jinshi’s height and weight, not her own. She had managed to create a drug that might work for him, but for her it was an aphrodisiac.
“For you,” she answered thickly. “I made—for you—I made a medicine for you. Tested it on myself.”
Jinshi’s face shifted between emotions so rapidly it was impossible for her to identify them all. “You’re drugged,” he said, half accusingly.
“Clear thought and focus,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Increased blood flow. Enhanced stamina. Meant for overwork. Help you with it.” She wet her lips, looking at the kettle on the stove with desperation. “Unexpected symptoms. Side-effects.”
He shot a dark look down at his robes. “For both of us.”
“That’s normal for men,” she said. “When women are in a state of undress in a pleasure-house. It is sometimes considered a problem if they do not experience—”
“I am usually able to restrain myself better around you, Maomao.” He clenched both hands into fists at his sides. “It is difficult, and I rarely want to, but I cannot leave you like this. You are—someone might take advantage of you. How can I help?”
Maomao frowned. He wasn’t wrong; if she opened the door, tried to flee back to the little cottage she’d kept with her old man, someone could easily grab her off the street. In this state, even attempting to distract herself would draw attention. She wanted to be touched, and the absence of contact with Jinshi’s hands had that itch beginning to prickle her skin once more.
“You could stay,” she said, and her mind seized on the idea with vehemence. His touch had eased the hunger, hadn’t it? “I—I may need assistance, and…”
“I said restrain myself,” Jinshi muttered, “not that I’m trying to become a bodhisattva. I cannot promise that much restraint, Maomao.”
She licked her lips. “Didn’t say you had to. There are—many things that can be done, and if you mean to provide…help…then I—”
“Help?” His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. They were glassy, not quite glazed, the irises nearly vanished under the growing black of the pupil. A clear sign of arousal. Was she doing the same? There was no mirror in here—she had no way to know, but suspected she was. Her body was certainly behaving that way.
She ought to be cataloging the sensations for later analysis. In the event she did consider allowing him to take the drug, a comparison between how it affected her and how it might impact him, particularly if it results in this sort of increased drive would be prudent.
Prudence was quite frankly the last thing on her mind at the moment. More pertinent was the growing desire to climb him like a tree, wrap her arms and legs around him, to sink her teeth into that beautiful smooth muscle at the joining of his shoulder and neck and find out how he responded to that particular stimulus. Would he groan and shudder? Would he make a noise to summon Gaoshun? The idea of watching his composure crack was tantalizing.
“How can I assist you?” he asked, catching her chin between his forefingers and thumb, and his voice almost cracked when he says it. “Say the word, Maomao. Tell me what you want.” His gaze darkened further, if such a thing were possible.
She licked her lips again and planted both hands on his shoulders, pushing him down, down, down onto the folded cushion on the floor. It served as her seat when she needed one, though it would do for him now. His eyes stayed locked on hers as he sank to it, knees slightly akimbo. Too tall for this space, but she would find a workaround.
The cushion rustled under Jinshi’s weight, the fine silk of his robes whispering as he settled, his gaze a weight upon her. Maomao didn’t give him time to think about an alternative; she couldn’t risk it. A desperate hungry need screamed through her, and the moment his backside met the floor, she was in hasty motion, stepping over his splayed thighs to straddle his lap. The layers of her skirt and undergarments were a frustrating barrier, but the heat and solidity of him beneath her was an immediate relief. Her knees bracketed his hips, and let out a shaky, gratified sigh as their bodies aligned.
His hands came up to steady her, large and warm through the thin fabric of her blouse, settling on her waist. His grip was firm, possessive, and it sent another violent shudder through her. She could feel the rigid evidence of his own arousal pressing against the junction of her thighs, even through all the cloth. A spike of pure, carnal curiosity lanced through the fog of the drug. What would it feel like without the barriers? The thought was dizzying.
“Tell me,” he breathed, his voice ragged. His thumbs stroked small, maddening circles on her hip bones. “What do you need?”
“This,” she managed, rolling her hips experimentally against him. The friction was blunt and indirect, but it sent a bolt of white-hot pleasure straight to her core. A sharp, punched-out gasp escaped her lips. More. She needed more—more pressure, more speed, more everything. She needed everything, and he wouldn’t refuse her. That she knew, even as her mind began to stumble in the throes of lust. She could trust him to do whatever she asked, and wasn’t that something wonderful and frightening at turns?
A strained, almost helpless laugh escaped him. “Of course it is.” His head fell back against the wooden leg of her worktable, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat. The pulse there hammered wildly. “By all means, apothecary. I am at your service.”
Emboldened, she did. She planted her hands on his shoulders for leverage and began to move in earnest, a slow, grinding rhythm that had her skirts rucking up around her thighs. The weave of his robes against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs was an irritant that quickly transformed into a part of the sensation, a counterpoint to the delicious pressure building where she rocked against him. Each pass sent sparks dancing up her spine, coiling the tension in her belly tighter and tighter.
No wonder Pairin liked this so much.
Jinshi’s composure was crumbling. His breathing grew harsh and uneven, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough she suspected they’d leave bruises. His eyes had fallen half-closed, fixed on her face, watching every flicker of expression as she used his body for her pleasure. She saw the moment his control frayed past the point of observation. With a growl that vibrated through her own chest, one of his hands slid from her waist, around to the small of her back, and pressed her down harder, grinding her against him in a rougher, more urgent cadence.
“You said assistance,” he gritted out, his own hips arching up to meet her downward strokes. The coordinated movement was devastating. The blunt ridge of him rubbed directly over the swollen, aching heart of her, and her world narrowed to that single point of contact. “Is this sufficient?”
She couldn’t answer. Words were beyond her. All that existed was the friction, the heat, the building, unbearable tension. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, her breath coming in hot, ragged pants against his skin. With every inhalation she dragged him into her lungs, the faint, clean scent of sandalwood and ink beneath the sweat, the uniquely masculine scent of his arousal. It was intoxicating. Her teeth found the cord of muscle where his neck met his shoulder and bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but with enough pressure to make him jolt beneath her.
A raw, guttural sound was torn from his throat. “Maomao—!”
His free hand came up to fist in her hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring her to him as their movements grew increasingly frantic. They’d become less a rhythm and more a desperate, shared scramble toward release. The interfering fabric was a torment now, the pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. She was so close, teetering on a precipice she’d only ever theoretically understood. Her muscles were trembling, her cries reduced to whimpers against his skin.
“Look at me,” he demanded, the words strained despite the voice of command.
She forced her head up, her vision blurry. His face was a masterpiece of shattered restraint—lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes black and wild with a hunger that mirrored her own. It was very, very good there was no one else to see him like this; they might not be able to restrain themselves. Only she could see him like this and survive intact, she suspected. Seeing him like this was her particular secret. Yet witnessing him like this, the impeccable Master Jinshi reduced to a trembling, wanton mess beneath her, appeared to be the last ingredient in her own wild reaction.
With a broken cry that was half his name and half a wordless plea, she shattered. The climax ripped through her, wave after wave of convulsive pleasure that clenched every muscle in her body. She ground down against him helplessly as the spasms wracked her, her fingers clawing at his robes, her entire being focused on the dizzying, emptying rush of sensation.
Through the haze, she felt his own end. He stiffened beneath her, a harsh, choked gasp escaping him as his hips stuttered upwards one final, pressing time, holding her tightly against him as he found his own release, damp and hot through the layers separating them. The hand in her hair gentled, his fingers stroking through the disheveled strands as they both rode out the aftershocks, slumped together in a heap of trembling limbs and tangled clothing.
For long moments, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant, cheerful plucking of the now-perfectly-tuned pipa. The heat in the room seemed to have condensed into the damp space between their bodies. Maomao’s mind, usually so brisk and orderly, was a jumble of sensory data—the pounding of his heart against her chest, the sweat-slick skin of his throat under her cheek, the lingering, throbbing echo of pleasure between her thighs.
Slowly, carefully, Jinshi’s arms came around her fully, holding her close as she trembled. He pressed a kiss, startlingly tender, to her temple. “Your…experimental results?”
Maomao took a deep, shuddering breath, the analytical part of her brain struggling to reboot. “Preliminary findings…” she began, her own voice hoarse. “Indicate a significant…and potentially hazardous…synergistic effect when the subject administering the compound…is also its primary test subject.”
Now past its first, frantic peak, Maomao’s mind began its inexorable cataloging. The data was overwhelming: the precise pressure of his hands on her hips, the damp heat of his release soaking through their clothes, the way her own muscles still fluttered with spent sensation. But one thing stood out, pressing insistently against her inner thigh—the rigid, persistent evidence that Jinshi’s own relief had been, at best, partial and unsatisfying through the layers of fabric.
The drug’s fire had banked in her, but it hadn’t gone out. It simmered now, a low, insistent thrum in her blood, and the feel of him, still wanting beneath her, fanned the embers back into a slow, steady flame. Prudence, curiosity, and a sharp, clawing desire fused into a single, decisive impulse.
She shifted in his lap, the movement making him suck in a sharp breath. Her hands, which had been limp on his shoulders, slid down the front of his robes, fingers deftly seeking the intricate knots and ties of his belt and sash.
Jinshi went very still. “Maomao.” Her name was a warning and a prayer.
“The experimental conditions were compromised,” she stated, her voice surprisingly level as she worked the first silk cord loose. “By uncontrolled variables. Multiple layers of inferior fabric. Inconclusive data on…primary efficacy.”
His hands came up to cover hers. “And your proposed correction?” His voice was thick, dark with a hope she could tell he was trying to restrain. Admirable, really, given how impulsive he could be at times.
She looked up from her task, meeting his burning gaze. “Removal of the variables. Direct application.” She gave a final tug, and the ornate belt gave way, his robes falling open. Her fingers didn’t hesitate, moving to his undergarments. “For the integrity of the study.”
A shudder ran through him. His control, so recently reforged after its first shattering, visibly trembled on its foundations. “You are…still under the influence,” he managed, even as his hips lifted slightly to aid her.
“I am aware of my condition,” she countered, pushing the fabric down over his hips, freeing him. The sight of him, fully erect and flushed with need, sent a fresh jolt of pure, liquid heat through her. Her purposeful detachment frayed another crucial inch. “And I am choosing to continue the trial. Your participation, Master Jinshi, is still required.” She wasn’t asking. It was a clinical demand, layered over a hunger that was anything but.
Joka would be proud and appalled at turns.
With a groan that seemed ripped from his soul, Jinshi surrendered. His hands flew to her own clothing, his movements far less deft than hers, driven by a frantic urgency. He yanked at the laces of her skirt, the ties tangling worse until he slowed, which made the waiting all the worse. Still, she wanted, and there was something of the drug still coursing through her body to make it so. But it was not the only thing, and that was something she would consider later, when she was not so clear of mind and focused. She did not want to think about what might be revealed if she did.
Better to help him shed her clothes and his. Her thin undergarments followed, torn in his haste, and then there was nothing between them but skin and desperate need.
He didn’t give her time to think or reposition. One arm banded around her back, the other hand gripping her thigh, and he guided her down onto him in one slow, inexorable, breathtaking slide.
The sound was punched from her lungs, a low, guttural moan that held no artifice. The feeling of being filled, stretched, connected was beyond any data point she could have imagined. It was a profound, startling completeness. She froze for a moment, eyes wide, body acclimating to the reality of him inside her. Nothing her sisters had ever said made her think it might feel like this.
Jinshi’s face was a mask of agonized ecstasy, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
“Maomao…you…are you—?”
“Move,” she gasped, the word a ragged command. The initial shock was melting, transforming into a deep, aching throb that demanded friction. “The protocol requires… movement.”
He obeyed. His grip tightened, and he began to lift her, then pull her down, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that was immediately, devastatingly effective. This was nothing like the frantic grinding through cloth. This was profound and primal, each stroke a deliberate claiming, each retreat a sweet agony. The sounds in the room changed—the wet, slick slide of their joining, the sharp slap of skin, their mingled, ragged gasps for air.
Maomao’s head fell back. Her nails scored his shoulders through the silk of his open robes. Every nerve ending was alight, the pleasure coiling tighter and deeper than before, rooted in the very center of her being. She met his thrusts, rolling her hips, seeking the angle that made him shudder and curse under his breath.
She forced her eyes open, her vision swimming. His beautiful face was contorted with a feral intensity, all celestial grace burned away by sweat and passion. Seeing him like this, feeling him like this, was the most potent aphrodisiac of all. The last vestiges of the medicine and the sheer, overwhelming reality of him merged into an inescapable wash of pleasure.
“I’m not…going to last,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, pounding into her with a force that drove her up the cushion, only to be dragged back by his unyielding arms.
“Neither…am I,” she choked out. The coil was at its breaking point. The world dissolved into sensation—the crushing pressure of his embrace, the delicious friction within, the hot puff of his breath against her neck. She buried her face against him, her cries muffled against his skin as the climax detonated. It was a deeper, more wrenching convulsion than the first, a white-out surge of pleasure that clenched violently around him, milking him, pulling him irrevocably over the edge with her.
His release was a silent, powerful quake. He stiffened, a hoarse, broken shout tearing from his throat as he drove into her one final, deep time, spilling himself inside her with pulses that seemed to go on forever. He held her in his arms as the last tremors racked them both.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths and the slow, steady drip of the forgotten kettle, now boiling dry on the stove. The heat in the room was no longer a bother; it was a part of them, a humid cloak of spent passion.
Bonelessly, Jinshi slumped back against the table, taking her with him. She lay sprawled across his chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart slowly begin to steady. His arms were loose around her, one hand absently stroking her hair. The position was impossibly intimate, more so than the act itself. There was no barrier at all now, physical or otherwise.
Eventually, he spoke, his voice a vibration beneath her ear. “Your final analysis, apothecary?”
Maomao was quiet, her mind a blank, satiated slate. The drug’s effects had been thoroughly purged. All that remained was a deep, heavy exhaustion and a startling sense of clarity. She tilted her head to look at the scattered remains of their clothing, the overturned mortar, the perfectly molded pills on her worktable.
“The compound,” she said finally, “induces a severe, systemic dismantling of professional boundaries. And personal ones.” She paused, feeling the weight of his body beneath hers, the lingering, tender ache between her legs. “The side effects…appear to be permanent.”
Jinshi’s chest shook with a silent, genuine laugh. He pressed his lips to her hair. “I find I have no objection to the prognosis.” His arms tightened around her. “Though future trials will require a more…controlled environment. And significantly more time. If you might be willing to endure them, that is.”
Maomao looked back at him, pressing her lips together, considering. “You know I hate to leave things unresolved. I think it might be for the best.”