Edward Foster stood dumbstruck at the doorway.
He had never seen Lawrence Winters looking so captivating and alluring.
He thought the Lawrence he had seen before, witty and playful in speech, was already very authentic and charming, but he never expected she had such an unseen side.
She lay there looking at her phone, and from his angle, he couldn't see her ink-black pupils, only her long, thick eyelashes, like two rows of tiny fans.
A flutter of those lashes was like the flap of a butterfly's wings, stirring up a storm in his heart.
She wore smoke-purple casual pants, her long legs raised, and the loose pants hung down around her ankles, her small feet slightly fleshy, as fine and white as carved jade.
When she noticed someone entering, she instinctively looked up, her bright eyes shimmering with emotions, her gaze shooting over like an arrow.
Edward felt as if he'd been shot in the chest, a fiery, aching pain, the kind that hurt with an unbearable sourness.
