Yuè is not for him. This is no fabled dance between yin and yang. There is no prophecy nor balance in this, no jubilant cry would come from the spirits.

She should not taste so good.

Nor should she submit so sweetly beneath him, subdued to his exploration. No longer merely an image residing in the secrecy of a wanton mind. She is real, and arcing.

He watches in appreciative silence, holding in his palms every languorous squirm, remembering how she stands, the choleric heat of her queenly voice. A blissful un-selfing, allowing the barest scent of perspiration and lilac eyes to take him over entirely.

"You are beautiful, Yuè."

He bends his head to kiss her bared shoulder, preening the neckline a fraction higher to expose a firm little vein. Horselord becomes unintelligible, guttural, just sounds in his throat as he teases the neckline with teeth.

He doesn't deserve her.