"What kind of thug talk is this?" Shang Feifei snapped angrily, "But I don't want to."
"You clearly do want it; your body is already ready." Han Yifan moved the hand he'd just withdrawn to her nose, a subtle scent diffused around her nostrils. She knew it was the smell that lingered after sex, the scent of hormones.
Shang Feifei felt a mix of embarrassment, awkwardness, and a touch of anger, as she struggled to explain, "It's just—a normal reaction, that's all." She truly hadn't expected Han Yifan to be so upfront. To say it was shameless wouldn't be right—it was just his way of bluntly putting such an embarrassing matter right in front of her. They weren't even lovers; was this closeness appropriate?
"You said the same thing last night, and then we did it three times," Han Yifan said with a look that suggested women always say one thing but mean another.
"You—I was drunk last night! I don't remember anything."
