The fingers moved slowly — down the crease, back up, mapping him like a man learning terrain. Jian shifted his stance wider without being asked and felt Xing Yu's approval in the kiss he pressed to the back of his neck, open-mouthed, teeth grazing the knob of his spine.
Then his fingers parted him.
Jian's breath caught.
"There," Xing Yu said, almost to himself.
The pad of one finger circled him. Light. Barely a touch. A slow teasing drag over the rim that made Jian's hips push back all on their own.
"Xing Yu—"
"Patience."
"If you say that word one more time—"
The finger pressed in.
Just to the first knuckle. Just enough that Jian felt the stretch, that strange intimate fullness, and a sound came out of him that was half gasp and half moan.
Xing Yu went still behind him.
"Again," he said.
Jian turned his head to look over his shoulder. "What?"
"Make that sound again."
