Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 187- Last time Being a Couple?

Not the kiss — the full, open, complete claim of his mouth closing over the peak of her, the warm, flat contact of lips and the specific, deliberate pressure of his mouth enclosing her with the complete, unhurried thoroughness of someone who had said one night and was explaining what one night meant.

Her back came off the ground.

’—AAAHNN~!!!—’

The arch — the full, vertebra-by-vertebra, absolute arc of a woman who had just received something she had not been prepared for at a location her body rated as high-priority, and whose body was making the rating known.

His other hand.

The pinch.

’—AAAHN~!!! AHN~!! KYAAN~!!!—’

Her legs — both of them now, both thighs, the full, heavy, warm grip of them — came around him.

The Chief was a woman.

Whatever she was also — whatever the six years had built and the eleven years before them and the cultivator’s architecture and the tribal authority — underneath all of it she was a woman who had a body that had been waiting, at its baseline, for something that arrived at this specific frequency.

The Cultivation light appeared.

Small, faint, the distant early-amber of a body beginning to advance — not the full breakthrough, too soon for that, but the specific, beginning-to-be-possible glow of a cultivation base receiving exactly the kind of input that dual cultivation was designed to provide.

He pulled back from her breast.

He looked at her face.

Her amber eyes were open.

They were looking at the stars — the flat, slightly absent, genuinely present look of someone who is in the process of filing significant new information at a speed that leaves nothing available for performance.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

She looked at him.

Her chest was rising and falling. Her hands, which had been at her sides where he had placed them, had somewhere in the last thirty seconds been relocated to his forearms.

She looked at her own hands.

She looked at him.

"If you become addicted," he said, with the flat, dry, completely unhurried register of a man observing a fact, "that is not covered in the terms of one night."

She stared at him.

"I will not become—" she started.

He closed his mouth around her again.

’—AAAHNNNN~~~~~!!!—’

He pulled back from her breast.

He looked at her.

She was still arching.

The arc had not resolved yet — her spine still curved off the grass, her neck tilted back, both palms pressed flat against the earth at her sides with the specific, white-knuckled grip of someone who needed something to hold while their body did what it was currently doing.

The cultivation light was still faint at her skin.

Beginning-of-something. The distant early warmth of a cultivation base receiving input it had not been receiving and registering it as significant.

He looked at her with the Eye of Truth running its quiet background assessment.

Her meridians were loose. Not advanced — the foundation work would take the full session to accumulate — but loose in the specific way of a cultivation base that had been under-resourced for an extended period and was now in the presence of adequate resources and was remembering how to open.

He noted this.

He looked at the rest.

The Eye of Truth produced its inventory the way it always did — flat, clinical, without editorial — and what it produced was a woman in her mid-thirties who had been built by Void Return ambient qi for her entire life without anyone managing the building, and the result of that building was dense and warm and entirely, comprehensively natural.

He looked at her breasts.

Heavy. The full, pendant weight of them falling sideways with her position on the grass, the soft, real, thoroughly-natural mass of a woman whose cultivation had never touched her body for aesthetic management. Her nipples — flushed from the cold air and from his mouth and from everything else — were soft at their peaks, the specific, vulnerable softness of something that was sensitive and was reporting the sensitivity honestly.

He touched one.

Not the claim-grip. The specific, light, single-fingertip contact of someone taking a reading. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

She made a sound.

’—Aah~—’

He looked at her face.

She was looking at the sky again. Her jaw was working — the Chief’s jaw, trying to formulate something from the professional category.

"Your nipples," he said.

She stopped looking at the sky.

She looked at him.

"Soft," he said. Flat. The physician’s assessment. "Very sensitive. The specific sensitivity of someone who hasn’t been touched here in a while."

Her jaw set.

"Senior—"

"Not recently," he continued, with the same flat register of someone reading a cultivation chart. "The tissue’s response time is—" he pressed gently "—immediate. That’s not a body that’s been regularly addressed."

’—HNN~!—’

She grabbed his wrist.

Not the removal-grip — the anchor-grip, the specific, tight-wristed hold of someone who was addressing the situation with available architecture.

"Don’t," she said. Her voice. "Don’t do that. The analysis."

"Why."

"Because—" She stopped.

He looked at her.

"Because it’s accurate," he said.

She looked away.

He moved downward.

His hands — both of them, the flat, warm, broad-palmed hands of a man who had detailed anatomical knowledge of exactly where every relevant system was located — came to her lower abdomen and rested.

Not moving. Present.

She went very still.

He felt, through his palms and through the Purification Touch passive that had been running since his rebirth, the specific, warm, local information of the tissue underneath. The exact geography of a woman’s body at rest. The specific, medical, completely clinical information of what was happening at the cellular level in this location.

"Your husband," he said.

She breathed. Sharp.

"How long."

"Senior—"

"How long since the last time."

Silence.

The grass was cool and the stars were very clear and she was naked in the dark at the edge of an ancient pond with a Nascent Soul Mid Stage cultivator’s hands on her lower abdomen and the Cortisol running at 23% amplification and the Oxytocin suppressed, and the silence that followed his question lasted long enough to be its own answer.

She said, very quietly: "Months."