Against the Algorithm

Chapter 47: More Than Enough

Yao's heart pounded, cheeks glowing pink as her lashes fluttered upward, locking on to his burning amber gaze.

He didn't wait for her words. He didn't need to. He saw it—felt it—in the way her hands didn't pull him back, the way her legs shifted slightly beneath him, cradling him closer, her lips already parting with a soft, uncertain breath.

So he kissed her.

Deep.

Hard.

Not rushed.

But claiming.

His mouth took hers with a force that melted straight through her hesitation, dragging her under and into him with each slow, demanding press of lips and tongue. One hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, back up again in a slow, possessive rhythm that made her breath stutter.

Yao whimpered softly into the kiss, tilting her head with shy eagerness, lips pressing back against his as she did her best to keep up—trying to mimic the way he moved, the way he coaxed her to open for him, to let him in deeper. Her fingers clutched the fabric at his back, anchoring herself, trying to keep pace, but when his tongue brushed deeper, she gasped against his mouth. That single sound broke whatever restraint he still had.

Sicheng groaned low in his throat and rolled his hips into hers—slow, firm, deliberate.

Yao's entire body arched. Her gasp turned into a helpless moan, and his mouth overtook hers again, swallowing every sound she made with another deep kiss as if to mark her from the inside out. She barely had time to breathe before his mouth trailed down the line of her jaw, then lower, skimming her throat, warm and open and aching as he moved to that spot—the one just below her ear, at the curve of her neck where her pulse throbbed and her body always gave him away.

And when he found it?

He latched on. Hot, open-mouthed, tongue dragging slowly before his teeth grazed her skin and sucked hard enough to draw a full-body shiver from her. She cried out softly, one hand flying up to bury itself in his hair as her back arched into him, her lips parted in shock and need. And he smiled against her neck. Because she didn't have to say it. He could feel it. She was his. Every trembling, gasping, beautiful part of her.

The moment Yao's body instinctively moved—rocking up into his hips in a motion that was pure reflex and nothing she'd consciously planned—Lu Sicheng felt it with a sharp, grounding clarity that tore a low growl from the back of his throat. Her softness met the hard press of him through his jeans, only the thin cotton of her underwear and skirt between them, and everything in him snapped taut.

Yao gasped, wide-eyed, breath catching in her throat as she felt it.

All of him.

Firm, hot, restrained—but barely.

And real.

She squeaked, the sound high and startled as color flooded her cheeks, her face burning from the sensation, the reality, the intimacy of it. One of her hands curled even tighter into the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like she could anchor herself through touch alone. The other trembled where it tangled in his hair, knuckles brushing against his scalp as her fingers gripped harder. "C–Cheng-ge..." The whisper left her in a breathless rush, her voice laced with a mixture of fluster, confusion, and something that sounded far too close to want.

Sicheng lifted his head slightly from her neck, breath hot against her skin, eyes dark, heavy with heat and something far more intense—something reverent. He didn't move away. He didn't push further. He just held her there, his hand sliding to her waist with quiet control, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her hip as if to say you're still in charge. "Yao," he said, voice low and steady, rumbling against her throat. "Don't be scared."