Shen Yuan wants it. She wants to feel Binghe come—the desire is clear in her mind in a way that is never has been before, like something she's only glimpsed through fog or dense trees that's moved at last into sunlight. He wants to pretend it's new, but it's not—it's always there, but always obfuscated. She gasps, pleased and shocked and disarmed at this clarity, the muscles of her stomach or pelvis or thighs or something working to clench around his enormous pillar, half automatic, half intentional, teasing, urging. She kisses every part of him she can reach—his shoulder, his ear, his cheek, the corner of his desperate mouth. "Binghe. My Binghe—"