A few droplets of crystal-clear wine leaked from Su Qingdai's lips, slowly sliding down her delicate chin, clinging to the fine, snowy texture of her skin, passing over the beautifully curved and plump neck, until they vanished into the pitch-black valley Zhao Rong could not see.
Throughout the drinking process, she gazed at Zhao Rong, unblinking and sideways.
The latter also watched her with interest.
This display captivated many onlookers, but what followed was even more eye-popping.
After downing a cup, Su Qingdai put down the glass and took hold of Zhao Rong's right hand with both of hers.
Her moist rouge lips, like dew-drenched flower petals, parted slightly and, without so much as a glance at Zhao Rong's rouge-coated index finger, she unhesitatingly lowered her head and took it gently into her mouth.
She carefully sucked his finger as if no one else were present.
