the one who sat and waited as he came near. Yet he continued to instruct her.
‘The discipline of it is learning how to express yourself within the confines of form and structure. The brush reveals every nuance, every internal emotion.’ He met her eyes. ‘If a few simple strokes could reveal so much, then how could anyone not sense the depth of feeling for you in every word I spoke, every movement that I made?’
Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She struggled to find her voice. ‘I didn’t see. I hoped, but I didn’t dare to dream.’
She looked to the papers again. He’d trained her in calligraphy to teach her patience and discipline while using the same techniques to try to control his own emotions. He’d buried them deep and only allowed then to show in one place.
In the forms, she could see the gathered memories of their days together. She could see the hundred different ways he thought of her. The flowing curves of wistfulness, the tight control of denial. It was all there. Anger, hope, longing. Desire.
‘I think of you all the time.’ She had to tell him how she felt now, even if nothing came of it. ‘I’ll always think of you. I’ll never forget you, Fei Long.’
She would have kept on going, pouring out everything inside of her, but Fei Long had moved around the desk. He pulled her to her feet and cradled her face tenderly in both his hands.
‘You’re crying.’ His thumb brushed over her cheek, wiping away a tear.
‘I don’t mean to.’
Yan Ling wished she could have been prettier then, not red-faced and swollen, but Fei Long lowered his mouth to hers. Her lips trembled so hard she couldn’t return the kiss, but he didn’t seem to mind. He kissed her again, moving gently over her mouth, his hand beneath her chin to raise her face to him.
If he had let her speak, Yan Ling would have told him so much more. She loved him. She’d always love him. So she tried to tell him in the way her body curved into him and the soft sigh of her breath mingling with his.
Her tears had stopped by the time he raised his head. His hands still framed her face. She let her eyes roam over his features to commit every stroke and curve to memory. All she could see was Fei Long: his piercing eyes dark with contemplation and the defined shape of his mouth, sensual in its own way. It was the only time she had allowed herself to take in the sight of him for as long as she wanted, not averting her eyes out of shyness or fear.
His expression shifted. Nothing more than a ripple of decision that settled in his eyes. His hands released her cheeks and he leaned ever so slightly towards her. The small of her back came up against the edge of the desk.
Her breathing quickened. ‘Fei Long,’ she whispered and it meant a hundred things. Most importantly, it meant yes.
He held her with his gaze as he lifted her onto the edge of the desk. Her feet lifted from the floor and for a moment she lost her balance, leaning back too far. Fei Long caught her. One arm moved around to brace itself just behind her and she raised her hands to his shoulders, her fingers digging into lean, hard muscle. She didn’t know what came next, but she wanted it.
‘Yan Ling.’ The knot at his throat lifted and lowered.
His robe brushed against her knees as he pressed even closer, trapping her against the broad frame of his body. She wouldn’t say anything this time. She was too afraid of breaking the moment in its most fragile state. Fei Long lowered his lips to the exposed skin of her throat, kissing her until her skin warmed and tingled. She tilted her head to bare her neck to him, offering him anything he wanted.
He lowered his hand and fisted it into the material of her skirt. In two efficient tugs, he lifted the silk enough to rest his hand against her bare thigh. But his intention was soon clear. Fei Long took her mouth again as he slipped his hand between her legs. He traced a finger delicately along the intimate fold of her flesh and she jumped. Her heart sped up uncontrollably. She could barely sit still, but Fei Long held her in place, anchored against him. His finger stroked upwards,