The corridor back to our rooms was dim, washed in the kind of low yellow that felt like secrets. Michelle's steps were slow beside mine, deliberate. The night hadn't ended yet, and neither of us wanted it to.
"Not sleepy?" I asked, voice playful, half-whispered.
She turned to me, smiling—but not her usual smile. This one was quieter. Braver.
"Not even close. Talk with me a bit? I've got whiskey. Or beer. Your pick."
We sat cross-legged on the rug, two cans between us, and the soft shuffle of night around us. Our conversation started light—life, perspectives, the strange collision of fate and fiction that brought us here.
I mentioned Zi Yang.
"He's hot," I admitted, giggling into the rim of my can. "Just… very pretty to look at. Like eye candy in perfect packaging. But that's it. He doesn't stir anything deeper."
Michelle hummed, noncommittal. Her fingers toyed with the tab of her beer.
"What about you?" I asked. "Any man here catch your interest?"
She shrugged, brushing past the question like dust off her sleeve. I didn't press, just let the silence stretch with lazy comfort.
Then her hand reached toward me.
A light touch—a stroke through my hair. Slow. Gentle.
I turned to look at her, and there was something in her eyes I hadn't seen before. Shimmering. Raw. Like emotion warmed into liquid.
"You smell really good," she murmured, breath close. "Like goat's milk."
I blinked. "Oh… my body wash. It's goat's milk."
Her fingers didn't stop. They drifted downward—brushing the curve of my neck. When she reached the nape, she paused. Massaged. Just slightly. I felt heat unfurl through me, delicate and sharp.
But I didn't move.
The space between my thighs was already pulsing with warmth.
Her hand returned to my cheek. Then my mouth.
She leaned closer—just enough for her breath to meet mine—and kissed me. Light at first. Testing. Then with urgency. Her lips found mine again, more insistent. She sucked my top lip, then my bottom, like she was gathering every part of me she'd been waiting for.
My breath stuttered. Too full. Too fast.
I tried to push away—not entirely. Just enough to find air. But my body didn't want distance. It only wanted more.
Michelle paused. She felt it. My confusion, my need. Her forehead rested gently against mine, both of us breathing like we'd run through emotion instead of time.
"Can we go further?" she whispered.
I didn't answer with words. I nodded. Small. Shy.
Her fingers toyed with the button of my shorts, undoing it with a soft, patient pressure. Then came the zipper—slowly dragged down like unwrapping something sacred. My breath hitched. The sound was hardly audible, but it echoed between us.
Michelle didn't speak. Her eyes flicked from my lips to my navel, then back up—like she was memorizing a map no one had ever shown her.
She brushed my shorts down, inch by inch. I lifted my hips instinctively, letting the fabric slide away. Her hand—cool against my skin—followed the curve of my thigh, then paused just above my knee. There was reverence in the way she touched me. No rush. No permission asked because it had already been given.
I was trembling. Not from fear. From the wildness of sensation.
Her palm skimmed upward, grazing the dip where thigh met hip. Her fingers traced lazy swirls as if I were made of honey and she wanted to taste me in pieces.
My inner thighs were hot. Wet. Ready.
And still she waited.
Then her hand dipped gently between my legs—just the press of knuckles through fabric. Not quite touching, but enough to make me gasp. I arched slightly, a whisper escaping me.
"Michelle…"
She leaned in again, kissed the underside of my jaw, then the hollow of my throat, then the curve where collarbone met shoulder.
"Tell me what feels good," she murmured.
I didn't know how. My body answered before my voice could.
I reached for her shirt, sliding it upward. My fingers trembled against warm skin—silky and firm. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but she met my hands halfway, letting the fabric come off.
Her bra was black. Simple. Elegant. The kind you wear when you don't mean to seduce—but end up seducing anyway.
She took my hand and guided it to her chest. My palm landed on her breast—warm, soft, breathless. Her nipple was hard beneath the lace. She gasped softly when I brushed my thumb across it. And suddenly I wanted her mouth again. I wanted every part she'd kissed to taste like me.
She leaned down and kissed me harder—this time with fire.
Her lips were hungry. She sucked my bottom lip like she was devouring hesitation. Her tongue met mine, coaxing, lapping, daring.
Our kisses turned wet. Messy. Beautiful.
She pushed me gently back against the pillows. Her hand slipped beneath my panties—finally touching the heat waiting there. Her fingers parted me, stroked the slick skin, and I cried out.
"You're so wet," she whispered.
I moaned. My hips rolled upward into her hand, unknowing, needing.
She watched me with reverent hunger, like she was watching a flower bloom just for her.
"Can I taste you?" she asked.
I nodded, breathless.
She peeled my panties off slowly, kissed the inside of each thigh, and lowered her mouth.
Every touch from her tongue felt like velvet heat. She moved languidly, rhythmically, letting me whimper and clutch at the sheets. My hips lifted, seeking more, and she gave it—curling fingers inside me while her tongue worked me open with aching devotion.
I was floating.
A virgin drowning in the ocean of Michelle's mouth, Michelle's hands, Michelle's voice.
And when release came, it wasn't like fireworks—it was quiet and full, like stars blinking all at once.
My body shook. She climbed back beside me and pulled me close—our skin sticky, warm, glowing.
I looked at her through the blur of afterglow, and for the first time, I wasn't shy.
"You've ruined goat's milk for me," I murmured.
She laughed, low and lovely.