The distance between them was close. He had smelled smoke and alcohol all evening, suddenly displaced by the jasmine scent She carried with her, making his eyes dark and obscure.
She wore a V-neck white dress, her slender waist in his palms, as if a little force could break it.
Her snow-white collarbone outlined her swan-like neck, an invisible temptation.
He swallowed hard, lowering his head closer to her, hoarsely questioning: "Sit if you want, get up if you don't? What do you think my legs are?"
She replied: "My man's legs."
He: "..."
He was stunned for a moment.
Looking into her smiling, determined eyes, as if confirming those words were indeed spoken by her.
And they were.
Anyway, he pressed on her waist, preventing her from getting up.
She simply held onto his neck, nestled in his arms, and looked at him coyly: "Why, you're my man, can't I sit on my man's legs?"
Saying this, She pouted, and sighed pitiably: "If not, then I won't sit next time, that's all."
