The night outside the window continued to be profound.
...…
After a bout of intimacy, Emma Benson lay in bed with her eyes closed, devoid of any strength, her black hair damp with sweat, sticking to her cheeks.
The man propped himself up on his arms, his dark pupils still red with bloodshot, as his long, strong fingers brushed aside the hair scattered across her face, bending down to stare intently at her.
The woman's delicate face flushed like a blooming rose, unspeakably beautiful, as his fingertips trailed down her cheek to touch her red lips.
Walter Schmidt bent down, his thin lips close to her ear, hoarsely asking, "Michael Greenwood never touched you, right?"
Emma, with her eyes closed, tensed up slightly, her eyelids twitched, but she did not answer; instead, she suddenly turned over.
"Answer me!" The man's tall frame pressed down on her, turning her body back towards him, he gently pinched her chin, forcing her not to evade.
