Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 135 - A Strong Princess’ Tight Hole

He gathered her—not laying her down, not placing her—’gathered’ her, both arms taking her weight with the possessive economy of someone who has decided that the distance between you and the thing you want is simply not relevant anymore. She was pulled against his chest, the full soft warmth of her pressed to him, her arms going around his neck with the automatic motion of someone who had been falling toward something for the past two hours and had just run out of things to catch on.

Her breath was against his jaw.

"’Sir Cang—’" she started.

He kissed her.

Not asking. Taking—the warm press of his mouth over hers with the specific completeness of someone who has been patient for a very long time and has chosen the moment to stop being patient, his hand coming to the back of her head, holding her, his mouth moving over hers with the unhurried thoroughness of someone reading an inscription—careful, complete, missing nothing.

She made a sound against his mouth.

He swallowed it.

His hands moved her—positioning her, lifting, her thighs coming up and over until she was pressed fully against him, the heat of the contact between them making her gasp against his mouth and pull back half an inch with the expression of someone who has just encountered a temperature they were not expecting.

He held her there.

His left hand at the small of her back. His right hand moving, finding the curve of her hip, her thigh, the position he was building toward—her leg lifted, angled, the specific geometry that would allow him what he wanted and allow her what her body was already asking for—and she understood what he was doing, felt the alignment happening with the physiological certainty of a cultivator whose sense of her own body was very precise, and made a sound that was not a protest and not consent and was the specific sound of someone who has passed through the decision and arrived at the thing the decision was about.

His hand pressed down. He found her opening with the flat, blunt pressure of his cock against the slick heat of her, pushing forward—one inch—

"’—Nn—’"

—the shallow press of him entering her, the stretch of it, the fullness—

Two inches. The specific, precise resistance of a woman who has never been here.

"’Ah—wait—’"

"It’s fine," he said.

"It’s not—it’s—I need—"

"Breathe," he said.

She breathed.

He held perfectly still and let her breathe and his hand found her breast—gripped, the full weight of it in his palm, his thumb at her nipple—and the sensation divided her attention between the two coordinates in the particular way he intended, the pleasure of the second location making the tension at the first location negotiable.

Three inches. Slow. The stretch of him filling her, the resistance giving way by increments.

"’Hn—hn—ahn—’"

Her hymen—

He didn’t pause for it. His grip on her breast tightened and he pulled her down and drove forward simultaneously—

"’AAAHN~—!’"

The sound filled the chamber. Raw and high and nothing like the composed voice of a Jade Meridian princess.

The sound of something irreversible, the body’s frank acknowledgment of a threshold permanently crossed, and then the aftermath of it—the trembling, the shock, the specific suspended moment of a woman who is discovering what the other side of a thing feels like.

Blood on his cock. Very little. Clean. The evidence of exactly what it was.

She was shaking.

Her forehead pressed against his shoulder and she was shaking with the full body tremor of someone whose nervous system was reordering itself around a new category of information.

"’—hurts—’" she said, very small. "It—"

"I know," he said.

He was still.

His hand moved from her breast to her back—flat palm, the warmth of it, pressing her against him—and he held her and stayed perfectly still and the stillness was the thing she needed, the body’s acute sensory overload requiring thirty seconds to begin recalibrating.

The pain was precise, definite, real.

But his ambient effect was in the room. Had been in the room for hours. And his skin against her skin was skin that carried two hundred thousand years of purified herb essence in its cellular structure and at the point of maximum physical contact, the transfer was not ambient anymore. It was direct.

The thirty seconds passed.

The trembling slowed.

Her breath changed.

From the far wall, Chen Yun had gone very still. She was seated with her legs crossed and her demon sword across her knees and her hands pressed flat on the scabbard and her eyes were dark and fixed on the middle distance between herself and the dais and she was—

Breathing.

Carefully.

The herb ambient concentration at ceiling level plus the direct qi transfer from skin contact at the dais was generating a secondary wave that filled the chamber with approximately the precision of a formation designed to do exactly this, and Chen Yun’s cultivation filtration, which had been performing excellent work for approximately four hours, was encountering the accumulated result of four hours of excellent work against an opponent that had simply outwaited it.

Her thighs were pressed together.

The pressure between them was warm and specific and had been there for approximately an hour and she had been managing it with the focused discipline of eleven months of solo practice and was currently managing it significantly less successfully than she had been at any prior point.

She pressed her lips together.

She looked at the passage entrance.

She looked at the construct’s pressure.

She looked at the formation floor.

She did not look at the dais.

’’’

PAAH.

Wei Lingyue’s breath escaped her in a sharp, surprised exhalation.

PAAH.

"’Ah~—’"

He had started moving.

Not hard—not yet—the careful, measured start of someone who knew where they were and was building from the correct foundation, each thrust slow and deliberate and deep enough to reach the resistance of her interior without cruelty, and the sounds she was making were not pain anymore. They were not entirely not-pain. They were the specific compound sound of a body that has passed through one state and has not yet fully arrived in the next and is experiencing both simultaneously.

"’Hn—hn—ah—’"

PAAH.

His hand had found her breast again—from behind, both arms around her as she sat in his lap, his chest against her spine, his hips moving in the slow controlled rhythm of someone conducting a practice with intention—and the grip was deliberate, the squeeze timed with the thrust.

"’—Aahn~—’"

Better. The sound was better. The compound was shifting—less negotiation, more arrival.

PAAH PAAH.

"’Ah—ah—Sir—Cang—’"

"Yes," he said, into her hair.

"It’s—" She didn’t finish the sentence. What it was had moved past her available vocabulary. "’Hn~—’"

PAAH PAAH PAAH.

Chen Yun had stopped managing the direction of her gaze.

She was looking at the dais.

Looking at Wei Lingyue—the princess of the Jade Meridian, a hundred and seventeen years old, Core Formation Early Stage, a woman who had been composed for so long that her composure was structural—currently seated in a man’s lap with her head dropped back against his shoulder, her chest rising and falling with the visible bounce of each thrust, her pale skin flushed from throat to breast, the grey eyes half-lidded and directed at the ceiling with the specific unfocus of someone whose analytical framework had gone entirely offline.

The flesh sound in the cave.

PAAH. PAAH.

"’Hn—!’"