The Empress Dowager's Pulse Raced for the Palace Physician novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: Doctor's Orders

Murong Yue's wrists were tied to the posts of the phoenix bed with her own gold sash.

She lay naked on her back in the middle of the great red mattress, with her arms stretched over her head.

Her black hair spread on the pillow.

Her knees were bent and open.

Her breasts rose and fell fast.

Qinglan stood at the foot of the bed in her undershirt, holding a small smooth stone of green jade in her palm.

It was long as a finger and as thick as two, polished glass-smooth, with a rounded head.

It had once been used to rub ointment into stiff old muscles.

"Tonight's treatment," she said, "is stillness."

"I cannot be still," said the Dowager.

"That's the sickness."

"I am tied to a bed."

"So you can't help yourself." Qinglan climbed onto the mattress and knelt between the white thighs. "You wanted orders. You get them."

"Qinglan."

"Doctor."

"Doctor." The Dowager's throat moved. "What is that?"

"A tool." Qinglan rubbed the jade between her palms until it was warm. "Not for a long while yet."

She held up one finger.

"You don't come until I say. And you tell me what you feel, every time."

The black eyes flashed.

"And if I disobey?"

"Then I stop, and you lie there wanting."

The Dowager's breath shook out of her.

"Good," Qinglan said, and lowered her mouth to the left nipple.

She took it between her teeth and bit down, gently, then licked it.

The Dowager's back arched off the bed.

"Oh!"

"Tell me."

"Teeth. Your teeth. I felt it in my cunt."

"Good." She did it to the other breast, and the sash creaked on the post. "What else?"

"Your hair, on my belly. It's tickling."

Qinglan dragged her loose hair slowly down the soft white stomach, back and forth, and watched the muscles flutter.

She kissed down to the hipbone, bit it, and moved to the inside of the thigh.

She kissed that too, soft and wet, all the way down to the knee and back up.

She did not touch the middle.

"Doctor," breathed the Dowager. "Please."

"Not yet."

"You're torturing me."

"I'm treating you." Qinglan licked a slow stripe up the other thigh. "Hips down."

The hips, which had been lifting, pressed back to the bed.

Her cunt was dripping.

Qinglan could see it, glistening and swollen, and the sharp scent of it hit her in the chest.

She leaned down and blew one slow breath across it.

The Dowager shrieked.

"Quiet," Qinglan said gently. "The guards."

"I do not care about the guards."

"You will tomorrow."

She laid the flat of her tongue against the wet cleft, one slow lick, from bottom to top, and drew back.

The Dowager sobbed.

"Count for me," Qinglan said. "Out loud. Every lick."

"One."

Lick.

"Two."

Lick, slower.

"Three, Doctor, I can't, I can't."

"You can. Four."

By eight the Dowager's voice was a thread.

By twelve she was begging, and the tendons stood out in her pulled arms, and her wet thighs trembled against Qinglan's shoulders.

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