Ultimate Villain's Return as a Doctor in the Cultivation World-Chapter 194- Arrived to Watch the true Love

The pond was lit by its own collected luminescence — a thousand years of Void Return ambient qi in the water, the flat, dark, perfect-mirror surface broken at its near edge by the specific, churning disturbance of two bodies in motion.

She was above him.

He had positioned himself against the bank, half-submerged, the water at his waist, and she was on him — the specific, full, bouncing, comprehensive geometry of a woman who had been placed onto a lap and whose body had taken the arrangement and was now expressing an opinion about the arrangement through every available channel.

No.

The thought arrived in his chest before his brain.

No. No. Not her.

The water.

The water was splashing with the rhythm of it — the specific, rhythmic, forward-and-back displacement of water that could only be produced by the weight and velocity of two bodies generating it, the splashing landing on the bank and wetting the grass in an arc that described the full, comprehensive, energetic extent of what was happening in the water.

She was wet.

All of her.

The pond water and everything else — her hair flat against her back with the weight of it, her skin catching the ambient luminescence, the specific, undefended, entirely-exposed reality of a woman who was not wearing anything and had not, apparently, been wearing anything for some time.

Her arms were wrapped around his neck.

Like a child holds a parent. The mortal thought arrived with the specific, nauseating, unasked-for precision of a man whose brain was filing every detail whether or not he wanted it filed.

Like a child. Except—

She was moving.

Her hips. The full, committed, forward-rolling motion of hips that had, at some point in the last six hours, stopped being managed and had started being honest — the complete, bouncing, wet, rhythmic descent of his wife"s body onto a man who was not him, over and over, with the specific, increasing urgency of a body that was not counting.

CLAP. CLAP. CLAP.

The wet, full sound of the water receiving her weight.

That is my wife, he thought.

That is my wife"s body. I know that body. I have known that body. I have held that body on eleven years" worth of nights when she came to bed late because the compound"s business ran past dark. I have felt that body against my side when she slept and when she didn"t sleep and when she was the Chief working beside me.

That body is—

His wife tipped her head back.

"—AAAHN~!!! Senior— Senior your cock— it"s—HAANN~!!!—"

He heard the word.

He heard the word she used when she said it.

Not his name. Not a general exclamation. The specific, unambiguous, completely honest word for what she was currently receiving and was apparently finding significantly notable.

Senior.

The specific, breathless, reverent quality of a woman who had located a thing she had strong opinions about and was expressing those opinions in real time.

He pressed his forehead to the bark.

He pressed it hard.

The bark left marks. He felt the marks. He felt the specific, physical, real sensation of bark pressing into his forehead and he held it there because the pressure was something his body could do that was not the other things his body was currently doing.

"Your husband," Cang said.

He heard it.

The voice carried over the water with the flat, matter-of-fact carry of a Nascent Soul Mid Stage cultivator who could, if he wanted, be heard at any distance he chose. He was not making any particular effort. He simply spoke at the volume of a man having a conversation. The specific, casual volume of a man who had accounted for the audience.

He knows I"m here. The thought arrived cold. He has known since—since before—he has been—

"Ever make you feel like this."

His wife.

He watched his wife receive the question.

He watched her head come forward from its tipped-back position, the dark hair swinging with the motion, the water droplets catching the luminescence as they fell from the ends of it. He watched the specific, present, completely-occupied quality of her face as she processed the question.

He watched her look at the water.

At her own reflection.

He knew what she was looking at. He knew that reflection. He had seen her look at that face — her own face in still water — on a hundred mornings at the compound"s washing basin, and he had always been somewhere nearby when she did it and she had always known he was there and had sometimes said something and sometimes not said something and he had been there either way.

She was looking at her face now.

At the face of a woman who had an answer to a question she had just been asked.

"No," she said.

No. The word landed in his chest. Small and heavy and permanent, the specific, irreversible landing of a one-syllable word that had been delivered honestly.

"Never," she said.

And then:

"—AAAHN~!!! AHN~!!!—"

CLAP CLAP CLAP.

His wife"s body, bouncing, the full, wet, heavy, warm arc of everything she had rising and falling in the luminescence of the ancient water.

He grabbed the tree with both hands.

He was — he was doing the thing.

The thing he had not known he could do in this situation.

The involuntary, nauseating, wrong, unstoppable thing that his body was doing underneath the humiliation and the grief and the specific, sharp, burning thing in his chest that eleven years of good marriage had not prepared him for.

He was responding.

Not to his wife.

To this.

To the sounds, to the water, to the light, to the full-body image of a woman in the dark with her head back and her voice gone and her body doing what her body was doing — the completely involuntary, biology-based, thoroughly humiliating response of a male nervous system receiving visual and auditory input of a specific type and responding to the type rather than the source.

He hated himself.

He hated it with the full, specific, burning, particular hatred of a man who had discovered something about himself at the worst possible moment and could not do anything about the discovery because his hands were on a tree and his body was apparently not entirely aligned with his character.

His wife moaned.

He felt the response get worse.

I hate you, he thought, and it was unclear whether he was directing it inward or outward or both.

PAAH!

"—Senior—HAANN~!!!—Senior, it"s—AHN~!!!—it"s so deep—"

Cang had lifted her.

The flat, complete, single-motion lift of someone picking up a woman with the effortless certainty of someone for whom the weight differential was in the same category as picking up anything else — his arms under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist from below, her arms around his neck.

The koala hold.

The specific, comprehensive, total-contact hold of a woman wrapped entirely around a man who was standing in the water holding her up with the flat, functional ease of someone for whom this was a logistical arrangement rather than an effort.

And in that position—

He was still moving.

PAH PAH PAAAH