Jinshi gazed at Maomao, then gently reached toward her. He looked like he was going to take her hand, but he stopped just short.
“You’re not going to touch me, sir?” Maomao asked, and he looked awkward.
“I want to. More than that. I want to hold you close, as tight as I can.”
“And yet you don’t,” she said teasingly. This from the man who had never hesitated to put his hands on her no matter how many times she told him not to.
Then again, lately, he’d almost seemed to avoid her, if anything. Even when he’d been hauling her around like a sack of rice earlier that day.
“I’m holding back. Otherwise I fear I won’t be able to control myself.”
“You won’t, sir?”
“No. It won’t stop at holding you close—I’d bite you, I’d lick you.”
“A chill just went down my spine...” Maomao gave him a mild glower. She had goosebumps.
That was the pronouncement of a straight-up freak—even if he could probably get away with it on account of being so handsome. If Lahan were to say something like that, she wouldn’t stop at crushing his toes—she’d stab them through with a spear.
“Now, that is rude,” Jinshi said, but he didn’t look angry, just a bit resentful.
“Then, since I’m already being rude,” Maomao said, suddenly finding she wanted to tweak him a bit. She drank down her juice, but then she ran a finger along the condensation on the glass. She took her damp finger and placed it on Jinshi’s wrist.