Transmigration; A Mother's Redemption and a perfect Wife.-Chapter 479; Honeymoon

When he was satisfied that she was clean and relaxed, he turned off the water and unplugged the drain. As the water level lowered, he lifted her out carefully, water sluicing from her skin in rivulets, and wrapped her in the largest, fluffiest towel he could find.

He dried her with the same meticulous care he’d shown washing her, patting her skin gently until it was completely dry, being extra gentle with sensitive areas. He even gently squeezed the excess water from her hair, wrapping it in a smaller towel.

Carrying her back to the bedroom, he noticed the bed was a disaster, sheets tangled, pillows askew, the comforter half on the floor. While still holding her, he managed to straighten the worst of it one-handed, pulling back the rumpled sheets to reveal the clean, cool linen beneath.

He laid her down carefully on the clean side of the bed where they hadn’t been, arranging her gently, her head on a fresh pillow. Then he pulled the duvet over her, tucking it around her securely.

But he wasn’t done caring for her yet.

He went back downstairs to the kitchen, moving quietly through the darkened villa. From one of the cabinets, he retrieved a bottle of massage oil that he’d set to warm earlier in a special warmer, infused with arnica and other herbs meant to ease muscle soreness and promote healing.

He also retrieved a small jar from the refrigerator, a special herbal cream he’d had prepared by a traditional medicine practitioner, designed specifically for intimate soreness, to soothe and heal delicate tissues.

When he returned to the bedroom, she was exactly as he’d left her, still deeply unconscious, her breathing deep and even, her face peaceful despite the tear tracks still faintly visible on her cheeks.

He poured some of the warm oil into his palms, rubbing them together to distribute it evenly, and then began to massage her body with professional, therapeutic skill.

He started with her shoulders and neck, working out any tension. Then her arms, each one receiving focused attention. He moved to her legs, spending extra time on her hips and thighs, the muscles that had borne the most strain during their passionate encounter. His touch was firm enough to be effective but gentle enough not to bruise or cause any discomfort.

He worked the oil into her skin with steady, rhythmic strokes, promoting circulation, easing soreness, caring for her in the aftermath of his loss of control. This was his apology, his way of showing that even in his intensity, he valued her, cherished her, wanted her to feel good in the morning rather than just sore.

When he finished the massage, he wiped the excess oil from his hands and retrieved the small jar of herbal cream. This part required even more care and gentleness.

With clinical precision but infinite tenderness, he carefully applied the soothing cream to her most intimate areas, the places he’d claimed so thoroughly, that were undoubtedly swollen and sensitive. The cream would reduce any inflammation, soothe any soreness, promote healing. His touch was as gentle as he could make it, not wanting to cause any discomfort even in her unconscious state.

He wanted her to wake in the morning feeling cherished and cared for, not just used and sore. The intensity of their passion was one thing, but the aftermath care was just as important, perhaps more so.

When he was finally satisfied that he’d done everything possible to ensure her comfort, he carefully recapped the jar and set it aside. He washed his hands thoroughly, then returned to the bed.

He slid in beside her carefully, trying not to disturb her, and gathered her into his arms. She instinctively curled into his warmth with a soft, sleepy sigh, her head finding its natural place on his chest, her arm draping across his stomach, her leg tangling with his. Even unconscious, her body sought his, trusted his.

He held her close, one arm wrapped securely around her back, his other hand gently stroking her damp hair, smoothing it back from her face. The room was silent now except for their synchronized breathing, hers deep and even in sleep, his gradually slowing to match hers.

The storm had passed, leaving in its wake a profound and quiet peace. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her hair, breathing in her scent, now a mixture of the floral soap, the herbal cream, and something uniquely her.

"Sleep, my love," he whispered into the darkness. "I’ve got you. Always."

He lay there for a long time, watching the moonlight slowly move across the room, listening to the eternal rhythm of the waves, holding the most precious thing in his world safely in his arms.

For all his power, all his wealth, all his influence, this was what mattered. This woman, this trust, this connection they were building.

And he would protect it, protect her, with everything he had.

Eventually, his own exhaustion caught up with him. His eyes drifted closed, his breathing deepened, and he fell asleep still holding her, both of them finally at peace.

Hours later, in the deepest part of the night when the moon had moved beyond the windows and left the room in near-complete darkness, Tang Fei stirred slightly.

She was warm, comfortable, cocooned in expensive sheets and strong arms. The soreness she’d expected was minimal, whatever he’d done while she was unconscious had worked. She felt cared for, cherished, safe.

But she became gradually aware of movement behind her. Huo Ting Cheng had shifted in his sleep, his body pressing more firmly against her back, and she could feel the unmistakable evidence of his renewed arousal pressing insistently against her.

Even in sleep, apparently, his body wanted hers.

She was exhausted, every muscle felt heavy, her mind still foggy with sleep. But there was also a responding warmth building in her core, a Pavlovian response to his proximity, his scent, the feeling of him hard and wanting against her.

"Ting Cheng..." she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and exhaustion, hoping maybe he was asleep and wouldn’t act on his body’s response. "I’m so tired... can we just sleep? I don’t think I can....."

But then she felt him stir behind her, felt his arm tighten around her waist. He was awake. And from the deliberate way he pressed against her, he was very much aware of what his body wanted.

His arms tightened around her possessively, pulling her back more firmly against his chest. His voice came as a low, pleading whisper directly in her ear, his breath hot against her skin, sending involuntary shivers down her spine.

"I know, Fei’er. I know you’re exhausted," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear with each word. "But it’s been so long since we were truly connected like this. Years of distance, of walls between us. Just once more. Let me feel close to you again, let me feel you around me one more time. I promise, just one more round, slow and gentle, and then we sleep. I need you. I need this..."

His words, filled with raw need and a vulnerability he rarely showed to anyone, softened her resolve despite her exhaustion. The plea in his voice touched something deep inside her, this powerful man, who commanded empires and inspired fear, was begging her for this connection.

Despite her exhaustion, she felt an answering warmth in her core, felt her body responding to his need, to his desire. This was his way of cementing what they’d built tonight, of making sure she understood how much he needed this connection, how much he needed her.

With a soft sigh that was half resignation, half desire, she relaxed against him, her body softening, yielding. She reached back and touched his face, a gesture of acceptance and permission.

"Okay," she whispered. "But slowly. Please, slowly this time."

She felt his body shudder with relief and desire behind her. "Thank you," he breathed against her neck. "I’ll take care of you. I promise."

He guided her gently, his hands on her hips turning her slightly but not completely, positioning her so her back was still mostly flush against his chest, their bodies curved together like spoons. He nudged her top leg forward slightly, opening her to him while keeping her in this intimate, enveloped position.

He held her firmly, one arm wrapped around her waist like an iron band, anchoring her to him completely, his hand splaying wide across her stomach. His other hand slid up to cup her breast gently, not to arouse but to hold, to maintain connection.

When he entered her from this angle, slowly, carefully, giving her time to adjust, it was a deep, intimate possession that made her gasp softly despite his gentleness. The angle was different from before, somehow even more intimate. The feeling of being so completely surrounded by him, his chest against her back, his arms around her, his legs tangled with hers...,.