The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis-Chapter 376: Not Bossy... Married (Deming)

They forgot the tea. They remembered the couch’s narrow edge only when she slid and he caught her with a hand at her back and a muttered curse.

"Language," Xinying scolded, breathless.

"Blame the architect," Deming replied, and shifted them down to the rug. "Better?"

"Much." She stripped her robe without fuss. He watched her like prayer, but she rolled her eyes at that. "Stop staring like I am going to disappear if you look away for a second."

"Most days, that is exactly how I feel. Like you are too good to be true. Like I am going to wake up from this dream and be back at the Red Demon’s camp."

"I will never leave you," she said, softer now. "I am yours just as much as you are mine. If you are dreaming, then so am I."

"Then let’s never wake up." He reached for her again. She came to him like muscle memory, like a map that had decided to meet him halfway.

Her jokes thinned when he set his mouth where he knew she wanted it. The soft sound she made when his mouth latched onto her pussy was his favorite sound in the entire word.

It made him feel like a king and he wanted to draw that sound out every hour of the day.

She said his name like it was not a name but a prayer to the divine.

He liked his name better like that.

He worked with patience because she had asked for no planning and because planning would have ruined this. She grabbed his hair and did not bother to be polite as she ground her core onto his mouth and nose.

He smiled against her skin.

"Deming," she said again, sharper.

"Yes my Empress?" he purred, taking a very slow lick, making sure to flatten his tongue and use his nose to nudge at her clit. Just the way she loved it.

He was rewarded when her released rushed out. He opened his mouth, wanting to keep every drop of her nectar for himself.

He shifted just slightly, trying not to put so much pressure on his cock in case he went off.

He was saving every drop of his cum for her.

They all were.

"Inside," she said, low and clear, as if issuing an order across a field.

With a soft chuckle, he obeyed.

They moved with no hurry and no audience.

His rhythm was steady, not cautious, not wild, the way he spoke when he forgot to be the cleverest man in the room.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and bit his collarbone because she could.

He groaned into her neck and for a moment, his rhythm stuttered as he tried to collect his thoughts. The feel of her moist head squeezing him was almost too much for him.

Almost.

"Eyes," she demanded. "Look at me."

He did. It undid him. He loved that and hated it and didn’t care.

"Too much?" he asked. He didn’t want to hurt her.

"Not enough," she said, breath breaking on the second word. "Don’t stop."

And so, he didn’t.

He found the angle she always liked and held it, even when his body asked for speed.

He waited for her to come first. He always would.

She felt the waiting and met him there, hips rolling up to meet his, body choosing this over everything else the world had offered.

When she came apart she laughed against his mouth like a woman who had decided the day would obey her.

He followed a breath later, burying the sound in her throat because he could not bear to wake the world if it risked stopping this.

They lay there until thinking came back on soft feet. She was heavy on his chest. He liked the weight. His hands wandered her back in slow lines.

"Now say the terrible line again," she murmured.

"You taste like winning," he repeated, resigned.

"Worse the second time," she said. He felt her smile against his shoulder. "But I’ll allow it."

He closed his eyes and let himself be ordinary with her. No plans. No maps. Just the small ache in his thighs and the larger ease in his ribs.

"Hungry again?" she asked after a while.

"Yes," he said.

"Dumplings?"

"Yes," he said, and then, honest because the room was a church now, "and you."

She pinched his side. "Greedy."

"Accurate."

She rolled to her side and studied his face like she was learning a new language. "You watch me," she said. "You think I don’t notice."

"I notice everything," he said, reflex.

"Not true," she said. "You missed a hairpin." She plucked it from under his back and set it on the table. "Also, you missed a chance to kiss me when I walked into the kitchen."

"I thought you would steal the steamer," he said.

"I did steal the steamer."

"I respect competence."

"Again?" she asked, simple as that.

"Yes," he said, simple as that.

He pulled her under him this time, hands firm on her hips, mouth at her shoulder, the place that always made her swear. She did. He laughed again, into her skin, and she reached back to squeeze his wrist in warning and invitation at once.

When they were done the second time, the room felt like it had turned the clocks forward without asking. He did not mind. She did not either. She stretched like a cat and then grimaced at the rug.

"Next time we do this in the bed," she grumbled.

"Next time the bath first," he said. "Then the bed."

"Bossy," she told him.

"Married," he corrected.

She kissed him for that. Slower. Deeper. A kiss that said more than either of them wanted to say out loud in case words made it smaller.

They dressed enough to pass as decent if a servant walked in and then ignored the idea of servants.

She pulled him back to the couch and climbed into his lap again, but this time to lean, not to tease.

He wrapped his arms around her like he was stacking books in a library—careful, aligned, satisfied by order.

"Tell me something stupid," she said into his neck.

He thought. "Yizhen thinks I snore."

"You do," she said.

He pulled back, offended. "I do not."

"You do," she repeated, smug now. "Not always. Only when you fall asleep over a map."

"I will conduct an inquiry," he said.

"You will conduct a nap," she said. "With me."

He sighed in mock despair. "Yes, Empress."

"We retired titles," she reminded him.

"Yes, wife."

That word did something to her face he wanted to see every day. She tried to hide it with sarcasm. Failed. "Say it again," she said.

"Wife," he said, quieter.

She tucked her face into his shoulder like that was enough for now. It was.

They stayed like that, idle and pressed together, picking at cold dumplings with lazy fingers and talking nonsense.

He told her the baker hated Yizhen on principle but fed him anyway.

She told him Shadow had started claiming the sunny square on the balcony like a small god claiming a temple.

He promised to fix the hinge that clicked on the outer screen and then admitted Longzi would get there first. She promised to let him take credit anyway.

Footsteps sounded down the hall. Mingyu’s voice drifted, calling her name, warm and unhurried.

Xinying grinned and did not move. "We’ve been caught," she said.

"We are married," Deming said. "We are allowed to be caught."

She slid her hand under his shirt again anyway, wicked as a rumor. He caught her wrist and kissed her palm to beg for mercy and to ask for more later.

"Kitchen?" she asked. "Or do we pretend we are innocent?"

"We are out of dumplings," he said. "Kitchen."

She stood and tugged him up by the front of his shirt. He let himself be pulled. He always would.

They left the study half-dressed and not at all sorry, the steamer empty, their mouths still tasting like vinegar and victory, her laugh spilling into the corridor as if the palace had always been meant to hear it.