Ye Fan didn't come up and start killing everywhere.
Zhao Xiaoman won the first round, her excited little face flushed, and Ye Fan's cards were hearts 678, losing twenty hits to the palm or two pinches to the cheek.
Zhao Xiaoman chose to hit the palm.
Ye Fan's hand was grabbed by her soft, smooth little hand and slapped, not too hard, not too light.
Ye Fan squinted his eyes slightly; he could still endure this bit of pain.
After almost ten hits, Shen Ruihui, who was passing by, watched with some concern Ye Fan's Udyr and Zhao Ming: "You two don't need to look so worried; how could the officer possibly suffer a loss? According to physics, force is mutual, and generally, those with thicker skin benefit."
Zhao Xiaoman, who was hitting, froze.
"That's right, why should I hit the palm? That way, I'll also feel pain. I want to pinch your cheek."
As she spoke, her little hand pinched Ye Fan's face.
It was a bit painful after all.
