Clearly, Sylvan Cheney was also enjoying himself.
The bedroom temperature rose, and the air was filled with a warm and ambiguous fragrance.
Jasmine Yale gradually lost her reason, as if floating on clouds, allowing Sylvan Cheney to take control.
But, at the critical moment, he stopped and reached over to open the bedside cabinet.
Hearing the noise, Jasmine Yale opened her eyes, her long eyelashes covered in crystal-clear droplets, appearing faint and hazy.
Her eyes darkened, and at the corners of her lips was a hint of grievance.
She knew what he was going to take.
Her eyes, like those of a startled fawn, stared at him: "Can we not use it?"
"No." Sylvan Cheney almost reflexively refused.
He had been negligent last night, not being prepared, but he wouldn't allow for accidents.
Accidents, those should only happen once, never twice.
He didn't like the so-called unpredictability; he enjoyed the feeling of being in control.
