This chapter contains emotionally intense material, including scenes of a sexual and psychological nature. It explores themes of manipulation, consent, emotional trauma, and the aftermath of a deeply personal experience.
The content may be disturbing or triggering for some readers.
Viewer discretion is strongly advised.
If you are under the age of 18, or if you do not wish to engage with mature or potentially distressing material, please skip this chapter and proceed to the next.
Your well-being and comfort are important.
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"Shouldn't you be moving? Why so slow?"
His voice came like a whisper just above her skin, a breath away from her lips. A finger—cool and deliberate—brushed her mouth, tracing it softly, like he was memorizing the shape.
Jing stiffened, her breath catching. She took a step back, her voice barely steady.
"As I said before... I'm tired. I'd like to go to bed."
"To rest," he echoed, his smile unfurling slowly. "Of course."
But he didn't move away.
Instead, he stepped closer—until the silk of her gown seemed to hum with tension under his nearness. His breath, cool and unnatural, slipped through the heavy fabric, sending an unwelcome shiver along her spine. It curled lower, into places she didn't want it to reach. A strange sensation bloomed between her thighs—alien, unwelcome. Her body reacting in betrayal.
No. Not this. Not now.
Why is he doing this?
Why does he make me feel like this?
Her mind screamed what her lips couldn't say: This is not my husband. This isn't my life.
And yet, here she stood—wearing her sister's face, her sister's gown, beside the man who should never have touched her.
He watched her with a gaze too steady, too knowing.
"Ling," he murmured, voice like smoke curling through the air. "You're trembling."
She took a step back—instinctive, desperate—but the wall stopped her cold.
She was pinned. Trapped.
Yinguang's smile deepened—not kind, not warm, but something darker. He closed the distance between them in a breath.
"Seems there's nowhere to run," he said softly, almost amused.
His hand slid to her waist with calculated ease, pulling her against him until not even air remained between their bodies. Jing could barely breathe. The silk of her gown pressed tight to her skin, her heartbeat a wild staccato against his stillness.
Then—his lips found her neck.
Not warm. Not alive.
They were pale, cold, and deliberate, moving slowly across her skin like a whisper laced with warning. Each kiss left a trace—like a mark only she could feel. Her breath hitched, and for a second, her hands twitched, unsure if they meant to push him away or hold on.
This isn't right. This isn't mine.
She pressed her eyes shut, heart screaming the truth her lips dared not speak,that she wasn't Ling.
But his mouth didn't stop.
And her body—treacherous, aching—betrayed her with every breathless shiver.
Jing realized, in the space between heartbeat and hesitation, that maybe… she wanted this.
Even if just once.
Even if it wasn't meant for her.
Even if it wasn't real.
His lips found hers—hungry, unyielding—sucking at her mouth like it held something vital. She gasped, the sound swallowed by his kiss, and before she could stop herself, her hands reached up, fingers curling into his face as if anchoring herself to the moment.
She kissed him back.
Not gently.
Fevered. Fierce. Like something buried inside her had clawed its way to the surface and refused to be silenced.
Their breaths tangled, harsh and rapid—like they were fighting for air, for dominance, for meaning in the madness of what they were becoming.
Still locked in his kiss, his hands moved with deliberate slowness—trailing up her thighs beneath the folds of silk until they found her waist.
She gasped against his mouth, but he didn't stop.
In one smooth motion, he lifted her—her legs instinctively wrapping around him, her breath catching as he held her against him like something claimed. Possessed.
The world tilted. She felt herself being carried, her back pressed to him, his steps steady yet fevered as they moved toward the staircase—those looming, elegant stairs that had seemed so distant a moment ago.
Jing clung to him, one hand grasping the carved banister, the other tangled in his collar as their lips met again and again—kisses not tender, but consuming. Desperate. Wild.
The silk of her gown whispered against his coat. The scent of his skin—dark, ancient, wrong—swallowed her thoughts whole.
She knew this wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
She knew she should stop.
But her body didn't listen.
And her heart—torn and trembling—could no longer remember who this moment belonged to.
They burst into the master bedroom, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them like a decree. Jing's hands moved with unspoken urgency, finding the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one until his chest was bared—sculpted, pale, and unnervingly still, as though chiseled from moonlight.
"Get on the bed."
Yinguang's voice was rough silk, filled with need that barely restrained the storm beneath. Jing obeyed, her breath trembling as she stepped out of the final layers of silk and lace,exposing her juicy breast.
The red lamb light caught her bare skin like a blessing—or a curse. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but also powerful under his gaze. There was no hiding now. Not with what she felt.
Yinguang paused for a moment .
A dangerous smirk played on his mouth—wicked, knowing, and deliberate .
Dipping his two finger between her thighs,it felt unusually tight,
"Ahhh, "she groaned out in pain,
A strang sensation she didn't understand filled her body as she moved closer, her vulva opening and closing,like it was ready to mate.
Yinguang approached slowly, zipped down his trousers, bringing out what they have all being waiting for .
His cork.
He grabbed her legs closer to the edge of the bed .
This wasn't the Ling he knew,
He then dipped his Cork not wasting a second into her p*ssy.
The moment he entered her,
A sharp, splitting pain tore through her—sudden and brutal.
Jing gasped, her back arching instinctively, her fingers clawing at the sheets.
It felt like something had broken inside her.
Not just her body. Her soul.
So this is it....
She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but a whimper escaped—raw and wounded.
Her body clenched around him, unprepared, too tight.
He didn't stop. He moved slowly, deliberately—each motion dragging the pain out longer, deeper.
Tears welled in her eyes.
She felt split open, exposed in ways she hadn't imagined.
The sting was unbearable.
And yet—
beneath the pain… came something worse.
Heat.
A dark, curling pleasure began to rise—foreign, traitorous.
It slithered up her spine, pooling low in her belly.
Her body began to respond.
Shame crashed over her in waves.
This feel so good?
Why is my body acting like this?
She hated him.
She hated herself more.
Her thighs trembled, her breath grew ragged.
The pain was still there—burning at the edges of every movement.
But with it came rhythm. Pressure. A terrifying ache that built with each thrust.
"No, "she screamed not really understanding what she felt, It was a mixture of paradise and pain.
But her body refused to obey.
She moaned—soft, helpless. Her hands curled in the sheets.
Her hips lifted without her meaning them to.
He filled her.
"Beg for more," he commanded, voice low and unrelenting.
His sharp eyes pinned her in place—piercing, possessive—already knowing the answer.
She couldn't refuse. Not with his body still inside hers. Not with her shame already spilled across the sheets.
And he knew it.
That was the worst part.
He knew.
"Plea....please Yinguang, please"Jing moaned , her hands clutching the sheets forcefully as she struggled closely.
he didn't stop but continued, but now faster.
His lips attacked her nipples,devouring it slowly by slowly, like it's a predator during it dinner.
She sighed dragging his head closer to it as he sucked desperately.
She wanted more.....panting like she just ran a meter race,
"More Yinguang, more "she gasped, her waist flexibly moving closer ,
"Really " his hands gripped her butt closer , so close that there was no space noticed between them, she groaned loudly as she stretched her body across the bed.....
The bed rhythmically squeaked — creak-thump, creak-thump — as the springs strained beneath each hit, the head board gave a soft , repetitive knock against the wall as their bodies met slowly.
Burning with time —not rushed, but desperate in its own way. Every breath, every sigh was a confession neither of them dared to speak aloud.
Jing forgot everything else for the time. Her name. Her lies. Her fear.
But something shocking happened, soon as it was over, Yinguang stood up—zipped up and left without a word—just a cold, despairing glance in her direction before disappearing out the door.
Jing lay there, trembling.
She felt alone, sad and used.
Her eyes drifted to the bed.
Blood.
Her breath caught.
A sob tore from her throat. "How stupid could I be?"
She curled inward, hair scattered across the tangled sheets, clutching the fabric like it could hold her together.
She should have known better.
She had given him something she could never take back.
HER VIRGINITY.