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... is shoulder.

Barely able to reach on tiptoe, she swayed unsteadily, needing him to personally steady her waist.

This led to an ambiguous situation. Shen Jing’s few feigned protests were inviting, her petite frame held in the palm of his hand. As she moved, her slender waist, supple as smoke, slowly rubbed against his waistband. Deliberately or not, it brushed past the leather belt of his gun, the embroidered golden threads of her cheongsam snagging on it.

Zhou Luchen felt ...

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