Zhou Luchen lazily leaned back. He grabbed her hand, pressed it to his heart, and not giving her a chance to react, said, "Touch it yourself."
He wore a bathrobe, clearly with nothing underneath. She merely tugged at his collar, and his bare chest blazed into her sight. It was hard and solid, swelling with each beat.
Made of iron, with a hardened heart, she thought.
Zhou Luchen pressed her face tightly against his bare chest, his grip too firm.
The moment Shen Jing was pressed against him, his powerful, firm heartbeat and the faint, pleasant scent of his body seemed to encompass her.
His temperament was just that domineering.
He told her to touch him, and she did so without shame. Her fingertips drew circles, their pads warm and soft, lingering and pressing on the contours of his chest muscles, tickling him.
Zhou Luchen let her be, his hands moving past her sides, his fingertips tapping nonchalantly on the keyboard.
