Chapter 63
The words hit him like foxfire.
Mingxi didn’t move at first—he couldn’t. Something deep in him froze, cracked, and then surged forward all at once. When he finally reached for her, it wasn’t careful or distant.
It was need. Controlled, reverent need.
His mouth found hers with a soft, desperate sound—like exhaling a truth he’d held too long. The kiss deepened fast, heat sparking between them, a low growl vibrating in his chest when she caught his collar and dragged him closer.
Foxfire shivered beneath his skin, gold and molten.
Her hands slid beneath the edges of his robes, fingertips gliding over the warm planes of his torso. He shuddered—actually shuddered—and broke the kiss with a ragged breath against her lips.
“Poppy…”
Her name was a plea. A warning. A surrender.
She cupped his jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone, eyes steady on his.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please.”
His restraint snapped.
He kissed her again, slower this time but deeper—his tongue teasing along hers in a way that drew a soft, helpless sound from her. Her back arched, and she pressed her body to his. He slid his hands—steady even when everything else shook—down her sides, learning every curve to memorize her.
He lowered her gently to the blanket beneath the crooked pine, his body following, braced above hers, breath harsh, pupils blown wide.
“Tell me if you want to slow down,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers, voice rough with restraint.
She shook her head, fingers fisted in the fabric of his robe. “I want you,” she repeated, voice unsteady but certain. “All of you.”
His breath left him in a soft, broken sound.
Moonlight banded their skin in silver. His hands moved with aching care—along her arms, over the graceful line of her waist, learning the shape of her like a prayer.
Every place he touched made her breath catch.
Every place her mouth found—his throat, his shoulder, the sharp line of his jaw—drew low, helpless sounds from him he hadn’t known he could make.
When their bodies finally joined—warm, breathless, perfectly aligned—she gasped his name like a vow, and he buried his face against her neck with a trembling exhale, holding her as though he could shield her from the very sky.
The rhythm they found was slow at first, reverent, full of wonder. Then warmer. Needier. Her nails grazed along his back; his hips stuttered, control fraying when she whispered for him not to hold back. He answered with deeper, surer movements, each one a promise, each one a choice.
Under the moonlight, under the ancient pine, under the knowledge that dawn might steal everything, they moved together like they had always belonged in the same breath.
When release came, it was quiet but shattering—her soft cry muffled against his shoulder, his low groan breathed into her throat. He held her through every trembling wave, staying with her, staying in her, until she finally softened against him, boneless and shaking.
Only then did he ease them onto their sides, pulling her into his chest, keeping her as close as humanly possible.
Her cheek rested over his heart, their legs tangled, their breaths still unsteady. After a long, fragile moment, her fingers drifted down, tracing the warm ridges of his abdomen. She paused and then traced again, slower this time, an incredulous little hum catching in her throat.
“See?” she murmured, breath tickling his skin. “I knew it. You do have absurdly perfect abs.”
He made a strangled sound. “Poppy.”
“I wanted to touch them the first time I saw you washing in the river,” she confessed, utterly serious. “I pretended I wasn’t staring. I lied very badly.”
Heat flared under his skin, aura flickering gold with embarrassment and something far more dangerous.
“I noticed,” he managed. “You walked into a tree.”
She let out a soft, helpless laugh that he felt against his chest more than heard.
“In my defense,” she whispered, fingers skimming slowly along the defined lines of his stomach, “no one warned me you looked like this under all those very proper layers.”
He caught her hand, pressing it flat against his abdomen, his own fingers curling over hers to pin her there.
“You may stare,” he said, keeping his voice low and rough. “Whenever you wish.”
Her breath hitched. “What if I want more than staring?” she asked, the question barely shaped, more heat than sound.
His control frayed all over again.
He rolled, just enough to cover her without crushing her, one knee between hers, his weight a warm, solid line along her body. Moonlight caught in Poppy’s eyes, her gaze widening as she looked up at him.
“Then you tell me…” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth and the hollow beneath her ear, and then lower, along the delicate line of her throat, each press of lips slow and lingering, “exactly what you want.”
Her hands slid up his back, pulling him closer again, and for a few long, dizzy heartbeats, they kissed like the night might never end—slow, drugging kisses that tasted like yes and stay and more.
It would have been so easy to let it start all over; his body certainly wanted to. But when she finally sagged beneath him, exhaustion stealing the last of her strength, he felt it instantly—the heaviness in her limbs, the way her fingers loosened, the way her eyes fluttered.
He rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard.
“Sleep,” he whispered, brushing a knuckle along her cheek. “You need rest for tomorrow.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Bossy fox.”
“Correct,” he said softly. “Sleep.”
She obeyed him for once.