In the dimly-lit cabin, an ambiguous pink atmosphere flowed.
Yu Qingqiu's chest wasn't very large, just about a C-cup, but it looked full and enticing. When Tang Zheng grabbed it, it felt good in his hands. Yet, he had no desire to enjoy it, as puzzlement flashed in his eyes.
"Could it not have been this mature woman's doing? Then who could it be?" Tang Zheng had thought that Yu Qingqiu had somehow controlled the flight attendant, but even as he fondled her chest, the woman didn't counterattack—it was too abnormal. He didn't believe that this intelligent-looking woman could tolerate such frivolity.
Tang Zheng's gaze swept subtly over the first-class cabin. The other passengers were fast asleep, even snoring. The likelihood of pretense seemed small. Moreover, Tang Zheng could discern their health from their physique, breathing rate, and intensity; their poor muscle tone also indicated average constitution, unlikely those of assassins.
