Against the Algorithm

Chapter 47: More Than Enough

She whimpered, her body trembling.

"Don't hold back," he whispered, teeth grazing the skin below her ear. "Come for me... with only me grinding against you." Another thrust, harder now, slower—perfect.

She cried out.

"Come for me with my name on your pretty little mouth, Yao."

And she did.

Her back arched, her leg tightened around him, and her body shattered beneath his touch—clothes between them, friction unbearable, and pleasure ripping through her like fire as his name tore from her lips in a gasping, broken moan.

"Cheng-ge—!"

He buried his face in her neck, groaning as her release sent him over that final edge, his control finally giving out as his hips jerked against her, grinding hard as his own release slammed into him, fierce and full, right there against her—his breath stuttering, her name on his lips, and her body trembling beneath him. They lay there in the aftermath, breath tangled, hearts pounding, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, his hand still cupping her gently through her bra, her fingers locked in his shirt as if letting go wasn't even an option. And for once, Lu Sicheng wasn't thinking. He was feeling. And all he could feel was her.

The air was still heavy, warm with the fading echoes of everything they'd just felt—tangled limbs, flushed skin, shallow breaths, and the undeniable weight of something raw and intimate passed between them. Yao lay beneath him, chest rising and falling in soft, uneven rhythm, her eyes half-lidded but shining, dazed and flushed in a way that made her look both wrecked and radiant.

Sicheng hadn't moved for a few moments, his weight carefully braced on his forearms as he allowed her time to catch her breath. He was still pressed to her, his face tucked close to her neck where her skin still held the warmth of his kisses, of their shared, overwhelming release. But then, slowly, gently, he shifted. He lifted himself just enough to see her fully, to really look at her. His hands slid up from the mattress, one cradling the back of her head, the other cupping her cheek as he leaned up, his amber eyes dark but clear, intent and full of something achingly human. He tilted her chin just slightly, brushing his thumb across the high point of her cheekbone, his voice low, soft—no teasing now, no heat—just quiet concern.

"Yao," he murmured, his forehead now barely resting against hers, "are you okay?"

She blinked up at him, startled by the shift in his tone.

"I know that got intense," he continued gently, the lines of his brows drawing together slightly, "fast. I just... I need to know that you're alright. That you don't feel like I pushed you into something you didn't want or weren't ready for." His thumb brushed her cheek again, and she could feel the tension beneath his calm—the way his body was still coiled like a spring under careful control, not from desire now, but from the weight of responsibility he never took lightly with her. Because this—what she gave him—wasn't just physical. It was trust. And he felt that in every inch of his bones.

Yao swallowed, her throat working softly before she nodded, the smallest movement of her head pressing into his palm. "I'm okay," she whispered, voice still a little breathless, "really." He didn't speak right away. He just studied her face, eyes searching hers for any hesitation, any flicker of discomfort. She lifted her hand, resting it gently over his where it cradled her cheek. "I wanted that," she said, more firmly this time. "I wasn't scared. Not with you."

And that—those words—settled something deep in him. He exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering as his forehead pressed more firmly against hers, and his voice, when it came again, was soft and rough all at once. "Good," he whispered. "Because you never have to do anything you're not ready for. Not with me. Not ever."