Leng Yichen curled his lips, looking at Bai Yiran with eyes burning with uncontrollable fire—there was longing, anger, love, hate, and the most primal desire of a man.
He leaned down, burying his head in the crook of Bai Yiran's neck, deeply inhaling her scent.
Bai Yiran struggled with her body, "Leng Yichen, let go of me. Let's talk properly!"
"Talk properly?" Leng Yichen lifted his head, his nose against hers, their distance very, very close, "Bai Yiran, when you decided to leave, why didn't you think about talking to me properly?"
Leng Yichen's mouth held a smile, looking at Bai Yiran's way of speaking as if asking what she had for dinner, plain and unemotional. But Bai Yiran knew this was his way of showing anger; he was restraining himself now.
