Shen Yuan tries to bear down on his fingers instantly. He usually finds it so difficult to ask for something, during sex, a huge wall of embarrassment standing between him and what he wants, even when he knows Binghe won't mind. Even when he knows Binghe will like it. But something about this body—some synergy between this body and Binghe's body—frees her tongue. "Husband—please—I want you to fuck me," she pants, and then presses the back of her wrist to her mouth in anticipation of a shame that doesn't really come.