The private room was filled with dancing and singing, but Tasha Moore didn't want Samuel Johnson to stay in such a place any longer. She shook his arm gently and said in a soft voice, "Samuel, let's go. It's so stuffy in here; I can hardly breathe, and my chest feels uncomfortable."
Samuel Johnson took a sip of red wine and his beautiful, peach-blossom eyes lazily swept over Tasha Moore's face. "If you want to leave, go ahead by yourself."
His tone was indifferent, utterly nonchalant.
How could Tasha Moore possibly leave Samuel Johnson behind in a den of enchantresses? Who knew what women might flock to him the moment she turned her back?
With this in mind, she couldn't help but look at the spot she had bitten the night before.
Upon looking, her face suddenly changed.
"Samuel, what's that on your neck?"
