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Wang Xiaofei collapsed like a puddle of mud.
Lying quietly in Sun Dasheng’s arms.
Drawing circles on him.
Said somewhat reluctantly: "This afternoon’s flight."
Sun Dasheng puffed on a cigarette post-coitus, lightly murmured ’hm’.
Wang Xiaofei was displeased, wanted to say something.
But found nothing could come out.
Right?
What position does she have to say anything to him?
It’s not like he’s hers.
Just a fleetin ...
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