CHAPTER 644: A DASH OF NSFW

Xiang Yu yielded, allowing himself to be pulled down. Han Xin’s kiss was not gentle but rather an assertion. It was the culmination of that explosive feeling inside him, a desperate attempt to pour all that chaotic, radiant energy into the man who had caused it. His lips slanted over Xiang Yu’s, his tongue sweeping into his mouth with a possessiveness that bordered on frantic. This was no mere meeting of lips; it was a conquest, and Han Xin was taking what was already his.

Xiang Yu gasped into the onslaught, a rough, startled sound that was immediately swallowed by Han Xin’s hunger. His own hands, which had been so careful and precise moments before, came up to clutch at Han Xin’s robes, the fabric twisting in his strong grip. He didn’t push him away. He held on, his own breathing becoming a ragged counterpoint to Han Xin’s heavy pants.

Han Xin broke the kiss only to push, maneuvering them both onto the narrow bed. He straddled Xiang Yu’s hips, pinning the man beneath him with a surprising strength. The world narrowed to the space between their bodies, to the feel of solid muscle under thin silk. He dove back in, his mouth finding Xiang Yu’s again, his tongue twining, dueling, drinking him in like a man dying of thirst.

His hands were everywhere. They roamed over Xiang Yu’s broad chest, palms rubbing over the hard planes of his pectorals, fingers seeking and finding the small, tight peaks of his nipples through the layers of clothing. He groped at his waist, his hips, mapping the formidable territory of the man beneath him with a frantic, greedy need. The silk of Xiang Yu’s robes was a maddening barrier, and Han Xin’s touches grew more insistent, more frustrated.

He tore his mouth from Xiang Yu’s, trailing a wet, burning path down the column of his throat. He nipped at the pulse hammering there, then soothed the spot with his tongue. Xiang Yu’s head fell back against the pillows, a raw, guttural gasp tearing from his throat. His fingers, still tangled in Han Xin’s clothes, clutched tighter, his knuckles white.

"Xin-ge—"

Han Xin didn’t let him speak. He was a man possessed, a beast driven by a single, all-consuming heat. He ground his hips down, a slow, wicked roll that pressed his own aching hardness against the solid length he could feel straining against Xiang Yu’s trousers. The friction, even through their clothes, was exquisite torture. A sharp, punched-out moan escaped him.

He did it again, harder this time, setting a rhythm that was pure, unadulterated desperation. This. This was what he needed. To be connected, to feel that undeniable proof of Xiang Yu’s own desire, to erase any space between them.

Xiang Yu’s hands released his robes and moved to his hips, his grip fierce, almost bruising. He wasn’t stopping him. He was holding him in place, meeting the frantic grind with a powerful upward thrust of his own. A low, continuous groan rumbled through his chest, a sound of pure, unvarnished want. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face a mask of straining pleasure. He held Han Xin tight, his panting breaths hot against Han Xin’s sweat-dampened temple.

Han Xin’s world was reduced to sensation: the slick heat of their mouths, the rough drag of fabric, the incredible pressure building where their bodies met. He was lost in it, consumed by it. He was a bowstring pulled taut, a heartbeat away from—

Knock. Knock.

The sound was like a bucket of ice water. The door slid open before either could respond.

Xiang Yu jolted beneath him, sitting up so suddenly that Han Xin was forced to scramble back, his balance lost. He landed on his knees beside Xiang Yu, his chest heaving, his lips swollen and wet. He ran his tongue over them, the taste of Xiang Yu and the ointment a dizzying mix.

Mei stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide. "Master, is—" Her words died as she took in the scene: the disheveled robes, the flushed skin, the charged, heavy air in the room.

She stammered, "Di-did I interrupt something?"

Lian peeked over her shoulder, her gaze zeroing in on Xiang Yu’s mouth. Her head tilted. "Master," she said, her voice curious and blunt. "What’s wrong with your lips?"

Xiang Yu, his own breathing still not entirely under control, looked from the two wide-eyed girls to Han Xin, whose expression was a volatile mix of frustration, hunger, and embarrassment. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

"...."

"I just bit myself," Xiang Yu muttered, rubbing his lip with a thumb. "Don’t worry about it. Did you bring the clothes?"

Lian, standing stiffly by the door, nodded. "Yes. They only had them in black and red." Her voice was composed, but her eyes betrayed her. She glanced at Mei, who returned the look with a silent warning that seemed to say, ’You better keep your mouth shut.’ They had intentionally chosen these clothes so the two could wear a couples outfit.

Lian pursed her lips, placing the folded garments on the nearby table with exaggerated care. "I am going to eat. Big brother, finish your soup. Master worked really hard on it before running out."

Mei chimed in, already halfway to the door. "Yeah, me too. Don’t let us disturb your fun." She winked, then dashed out, shutting the door tightly behind her. She paused, wishing she had something to lock it from the outside, but sighed and gave up.

Xiang Yu rose from the bed, picked up the bowl of chicken soup, and stirred it gently. The steam curled upward, the temperature now perfect. He walked over, calm and quiet.

Han Xin sat cross-legged in a lotus pose, still flushed with embarrassment. "Do you... do you think they saw?"

Xiang Yu didn’t answer immediately. He scooped a spoonful of soup, blew on it lightly, his slightly red lips pouting in concentration. Then he glanced at Han Xin, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"They saw," he said, "but they will live."

But Han Xin didn’t hear his response. He dazedly stared, his gaze locked onto Xiang Yu’s lips, the memory of their kiss replaying in vivid detail. Sweet. Soft. Unexpected. It was the kind of kiss that lingered in the soul, not just the skin.

He remembered the first time his thoughts had begun to stray toward that half-demon who had broken away from his restraints and vanished into the night. Back then, it had felt foolish, dangerous even. He never imagined it would lead here to this quiet room, this closeness, this intimacy.

Especially not after the day they met, when Xiang Yu had looked him up and down and called him an "ugly bastard."

Han Xin couldn’t get that memory out of his mind and deep down, he never thought Xiang Yu would like him. Yet here they were.

Xiang Yu noticed the silence. He had answered Han Xin’s question, but Han Xin hadn’t replied and he was just staring at him.

Xiang Yu chuckled, waving a hand in front of his face. "Do I look that enticing?"

Han Xin blinked, startled. "Huh?"

Then, slowly, he shuffled closer, the tip of his finger brushing against Xiang Yu’s thigh. "More than enticing," he murmured. "That kiss was so good... I want more."

Xiang Yu smirked, lifting the spoon of soup and blowing on it gently, his slightly red lips pouting with casual grace. "We have kissed so many times," he said, bringing the spoon to Han Xin’s lips.

Han Xin leaned forward, lips brushing the edge of the spoon, eyes never leaving Xiang Yu’s.

"But not in this world," he whispered.

His lips parted obediently as Xiang Yu brought the spoon to his mouth. The soup slid in—lukewarm, unevenly salted, with a limp carrot that tasted like it had given up halfway through its existence. The flavor was a muddled ambition, boiled water trying to be something more. Han Xin coughed, the carrot slipping past his teeth like a soggy memory.

Xiang Yu’s smile faltered. "Too hot?"

Han Xin blinked, then forced a grin so wide it nearly cracked his face. "No, no—it’s good," he rasped, voice hoarse from the effort. "*Cough... Really good."

Xiang Yu beamed, proud of himself, and fed him another spoonful.

He had considered asking Master Shen to assign someone to make chicken soup for Han Xin. But when he overheard Master Shen casually mention that plenty of girls would gladly cook for Han Xin, Xiang Yu’s pride flared. There was no way he would let those vultures try to impress his man. He called over an elder woman to instruct him instead.

She had nearly pulled out her hair watching him butcher perfectly good chicken, muttering under her breath about wasted youth and ruined meat. But Xiang Yu had tasted the final result and deemed it worthy.

Now, Han Xin swallowed each bite like a vow. The soup was not kind. It was clumsy, uneven, and confused. But Han Xin was kind. And Xiang Yu, watching him with that radiant grin, believed every word of his praise.

Outside, the wind stirred the lanterns, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Inside, Han Xin kept eating, not tasting the soup, but the love that had tried to make it.