In the hospital room.
When Sylvan Cheney returned after having smoked a few cigarettes, Jasmine Yale was still in a deep sleep.
His warm hand touched her forehead, the high fever had subsided.
However, Jasmine Yale's hands and feet were ice-cold, her lips pale.
Her face was thin, worn out from exhaustion and fatigue.
Sylvan Cheney bent down and kissed her lips, cradling her face somewhat uncontrollably, his own lips carrying a faint taste of tobacco.
Her lips were cool, with her unique fragrance.
In that moment, Sylvan couldn't control himself, as if he had thrown away the last of his rationality.
He held the back of her head.
Enraptured and forgetful of the world, he wanted to brand his mark on her lips.
Soon, Sylvan's breathing became uneven as he kissed Jasmine Yale, nearly losing control.
She carried a sweet scent on her body, like gardenia, yet also reminiscent of jasmine.
