"Prepare her," he said. "Yes."
"That looks less like preparation and more like—"
"It's the same thing," he said.
He brought his other hand up.
Both thumbs now—finding the peaks of her with the slow, deliberate certainty of someone who knew exactly where they were going and had decided the transit was as important as the destination—and pressed inward in a slow, rolling motion that drew her nipples between his fingers with a precision that made Wei Lingyue's back arch fractionally, the motion of her spine revealing more than anything she had said in the previous two hours.
"'Hn—'" The sound broke off halfway through. Then: "'Ah—'"
She is a virgin, Chen Yun had not been told—but the sounds were telling the story clearly enough. The sounds of someone whose body was encountering sensation it had heard described and theorized and been made aware of as a category and was now discovering was an entirely different thing as an actual experience.
"Is she—" Chen Yun started.
