The Scholar's Embrace

The young man smiled gently, his fingers brushing over the girl's silky black hair, gliding past her ear. Her body trembled slightly at the touch.

She looked up at him with eyes like spring water—misty, deep, and filled with a strange, unspoken longing. Her lips parted slightly, fragrant breath escaping like an orchid's whisper.

Unable to resist the charm of the girl in his arms, the Third Young Master leaned down and kissed her—firmly, deeply.

By the time their lips parted, nearly half an hour had passed. The girl looked utterly dazed, her breathing shallow, her body melting into his embrace.

"I'm sorry, Xiaoyan," the Third Young Master said with a soft smile, licking his lips with satisfaction. "You're just too beautiful. I couldn't help myself..."

Before he could say more, Du Xiaoyan gently pressed her slender finger against his lips, her voice barely audible as she leaned into him, her body soft and weak from the kiss. "Don't talk. Just hold me."

And so, he did—holding her in silence, feeling the warmth and softness of her body against his. Only a few days ago, he hadn't even touched her hand. Following Qiao Wei's advice, he had momentarily traded his title of "Flower Thief" for that of "Romantic Saint," trying the gentleman's route—charm and patience rather than force. Tonight, that strategy had borne fruit.

"Fifty thousand taels of silver… worth it, I guess," he thought to himself, recalling the hefty fee he paid to stage a rescue incident and gain her trust. "When I won over Yue'er, it cost a million… so in comparison, this was a bargain."

Unaware of the schemes behind his gentle touch, Du Xiaoyan clung to him tighter, her cheeks flushed, her breath hot. A wave of unfamiliar warmth surged through her—she had never been this close to a man before.

"You... you came late today," she whispered, her voice laced with bashfulness and a hint of accusation.

Still smiling, he gently stroked her hair and said nothing.

Blushing, she looked away and murmured, "Hey… I asked you a question… why are you just staring at me like that?"

He laughed. "You told me not to talk, remember?"

She pinched his waist lightly in protest. "Well, I'm telling you to talk now!"

"Alright, alright," he chuckled. "Tu Hong said there were several thieves sneaking into the estate the past few nights. They caught most of them, but one got away—turns out it was Zhang Ziyi, the notorious rogue from Yan Province, known as the 'Butterfly in the Wind.' We set a trap and caught him today. That's why I was late."

Tu Hong was the chief guard of the estate, a top-tier expert whose body was said to be impervious to blades. No one knew where his weakness was—only that it existed.

Du Xiaoyan hadn't been told about the incident, so when her beloved arrived late, her worry and restlessness had reached a peak—explaining her sudden emotional vulnerability.

The former "flower thief"—now a self-declared romantic—held back his usual urges. Qiao Wei had told him: a true playboy doesn't just win a woman's body, but her heart. Let her come willingly. Cry for you. Beg for you.

"Maybe I should use an aphrodisiac," he mused half-seriously, but quickly dismissed the idea. "That would be cheating. Doesn't show real skill."

He had begun to understand the thrill of pursuit. Like a hunter stalking prey—the joy wasn't just in the capture, but the chase.

So he simply held her, letting the moment settle. Her breath steadied. Her mind cleared.

Then it hit her: "What am I doing? Is he going to think I'm some loose woman?" But retreating from his arms might also send the wrong message. Her body tensed in confusion.

Sensing the shift in her posture, the Third Young Master gently placed his hands on her shoulders and eased her away from his chest.

"Xiaoyan, it's windy out here. Let's go inside."

She nodded silently, heart brimming with gratitude. She knew, instinctively, that he was being considerate.

Inside her courtyard, her room was a pleasant surprise. Refined, elegant—more like a scholar's daughter than a martial world maiden. A guqin rested on the central table.

"I'll play for you," she said, sitting down gracefully, her fingers brushing over the strings.

The Third Young Master nodded. He knew she was well-versed in all the refined arts—music, chess, calligraphy, poetry—and not just a pretty face. He even believed that, had she chosen to take the imperial exams, she could've made the top ranks.

As he sat across from her, sipping the tea she'd prepared, he watched her with appreciation—both for her beauty and her talent.

The music flowed, delicate and moving.

The Third Young Master, though musically ignorant, nodded along with a practiced look of deep understanding, all the while thinking to himself:

"If she brings me to her room, serves me tea, plays me music… isn't that the ancient code for 'you may proceed'?"

His inner conflict grew. "But if I make a move too soon, I ruin the whole 'romantic saint' image I've built up so carefully. Damn it… what's a guy supposed to do?"

He imagined her rising from her seat, undressing piece by piece, and walking toward him boldly. "Hey handsome, care to join me in bed?"

A foolish grin crept across his face.

"Screw it! Since when was it a rule that saints can't strike first?" Resolute, he stood up and strode toward her.

Startled, Du Xiaoyan looked up. He looked like a man on a mission.

Before she could react, he pulled her up into his arms, twirled her around, and dipped her low into a dramatic pose, planting a kiss on her lips with all the flair of a martial arts hero in a romance play.

When he finally pulled back, he looked at her seriously.

"Xiaoyan," he said, "It's getting late. Let's wash up and go to bed."

Du Xiaoyan stared at him, dumbfounded—and burst out laughing.