Meiling reached up.
Her thick fingers wrapped around the base of him the same way they had at some point in the previous night—by this point her hands knew the weight and girth of him the way hands know the shape of a familiar handle—and she brought the tip to her lips without ceremony, without fanfare, without anything except the hollow dignity of a woman who has decided that compliance offered willingly is still, technically, a choice.
Her mouth opened.
Her lips sealed around him.
The merchant looked at the wall. His eyes were dry. His jaw was working.
"Wider," Cang said, not unkindly.
Meiling's jaw stretched. Her throat moved. From the angle of the merchant's chair he could see the whole of it—his wife's lips stretched obscenely wide, the thick column of flesh vanishing between them, the bob of her throat as she worked depth. The soft sounds she made were wet and rhythmic and entirely too audible in the quiet morning room.
"Mmph—Gkk—Nngh—"
