A white shirt, a hip-hugging skirt, high heels.
Cheng Jun stood by the window, as if she had been waiting for Yang Hui's arrival.
The buttons of her shirt were fastened primly to two fingers below her collarbone, yet the tailored waist exposed the curve of her slender waist—a hidden current stirred by the office air conditioning. Every crease in the fabric clinging to her skin felt like a silent provocation.
The sharp cut of the pencil skirt was like a blade, tracing a breathtaking arc from her waistline to the swell of her hips. A three-finger-wide slit at the side offered a glimpse of a leg sheathed in black silk as her steps crossed. The moment she sat, the fabric pulling taut, the very air seemed to solidify into an amber of desire.
"Have some Golden Milk White." It was a type of white tea.
