The bus rolled quietly through early afternoon traffic, a lazy hum of engines and muffled chatter settling among the students. Samantha sat near the front, clipboard balanced on her lap, pretending to review the itinerary—but her gaze drifted often to the aisle mirror above her.
Nadra sat in the middle row, earbuds tucked in, forehead leaning against the window. The sunlight streamed in patches, turning her dark hair copper in places. She wore a pale blue sundress beneath her cardigan—light enough to mark the season, soft enough to undo Samantha's focus every time Nadra shifted.
Behind her, students passed gum, whispered about who might bunk with whom, and joked about museum ghosts. But Samantha tracked Nadra's posture—the way she tilted her head, the occasional brush of her fingers against her collarbone, absentminded, like she was thinking about something private.
Samantha didn't call on her during the museum briefing. She barely looked in Nadra's direction when she divided students into tour groups. But Nadra always lingered near the edge of hers—never directly next to her, just close enough to leave Samantha wondering whether it was coincidence.
Inside the National Museum, Samantha kept her tone professional, pointing to colonial weaponry and textile maps with dry, clipped commentary. The students scribbled dutifully. But Nadra lingered at each station longer than necessary, sometimes facing the exhibit, sometimes facing Samantha.
Near the hall of photographs, Nadra stood beside Samantha at a display of a 1930s protest march. The glass casing glinted. Their reflections touched, ghostly and side by side.
"This one feels like longing," Nadra murmured, not looking at her. Samantha's breath hitched. She didn't reply.
They passed a painting—rich with shadow and red tones—and Nadra leaned in, pretending to read the placard. Samantha moved to reach for the next page on her clipboard and, in doing so, brushed past Nadra's hand. Their fingers grazed. A second, maybe less. But Samantha's spine stiffened. Nadra's shoulders lifted in response, the smallest inhale.
Neither reacted outwardly. But Samantha's hand tingled with aftershock, her chest growing tight beneath her blouse. She spent the next hour focused almost obsessively on student chatter, emergency protocols, bus timings—anything to distract from the heat building behind her skin.
By the time evening descended, the students were loud with anticipation and tired feet.
The dormitory was plain—rows of bunk beds flanked by sun-faded curtains and single wall fans that buzzed like tired insects. Samantha helped arrange sleeping assignments, giving each student a paper slip. Nadra accepted hers with a quiet thank-you, her fingers brushing Samantha's again. This time, the touch felt deliberate.
She was assigned a bed at the far corner of the student hall—top bunk, near a window that spilled pale orange dusk across her legs.
Samantha's own room was down the hall—a modest staff space with two single beds and a desk. She unpacked slowly, folding each item like she was curating distance. But when the dorm lights dimmed and student laughter shrank into whispers, she wandered into the hallway. Her footsteps were measured. Her body drawn forward by something she wasn't ready to name.
Standing just outside the students' door, she heard Nadra's voice. Soft, distinct.
"I think she's beautiful," someone whispered.
Another giggle. "You mean Miss?"
Nadra didn't answer. Samantha leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes.
It was near midnight when she heard the knock.
Barely a sound. Just a suggestion.
Samantha opened the door, heart thudding behind her ribs.
Nadra stood barefoot, hair damp and loose around her shoulders. Her eyes had dropped the pretense now. No painting. No museum talk. Just want—coiled and deliberate.
Inside, the air felt heavier than it should.
Samantha didn't ask. Just reached for her.
The kiss was different from Saturday's quiet reverence. It held teeth and breath and refusal. Nadra pressed against her hard, lips parting, hips shifting as though she'd carried this ache for hours—days.
Clothes vanished between gasps. Samantha's blouse was unbuttoned, Nadra's cardigan peeled away, the sundress lifted over her head with a low rustle.
Samantha sat on the edge of the bed, and Nadra straddled her knees—knees bending, thighs split around Samantha's lap. Their bodies locked, mouths wild, fingers grasping.
"You didn't sleep last night," Nadra said, her voice gravel-soft.
"I haven't slept properly since I first saw you," Samantha admitted, her hand trailing down Nadra's spine.
She found the slick between Nadra's thighs and slipped two fingers in fast—too fast for words. Nadra moaned aloud, instinctive, and Samantha crushed her mouth against Nadra's to swallow it.
Nadra arched, braced her palms on Samantha's shoulders, hips grinding down, hard and slow.
"I want your mouth," Nadra said, breath shaking.
Samantha leaned back, slid her hands around Nadra's waist, and lowered her until Nadra was on her knees on the bed. Then Samantha moved, mouth trailing down her stomach, tongue dipping into the line of her thigh.
The first lick was slow. The second was hungry. Nadra cried out—sharp, startled.
Samantha sucked, circled, buried herself between Nadra's legs until her own breath faltered.
Nadra pulled her hair—desperate, wordless—trying to stay quiet, failing. Her thighs quivered. Her voice broke.
"Don't stop, please—don't—don't stop…"
She came with her entire body, spine arched, fists tight, her moan strangled in the crook of her elbow.
But Samantha didn't stop. She held Nadra down, mouth insistent, tongue relentless. A second climax tore through her—this one with a full-body shudder, legs closing around Samantha's head, nails dragging down her back.
They collapsed into each other, breathless. Nadra's cheek rested against Samantha's chest, hearts hammering beneath skin.
Then Samantha flipped them, gently but with weight—hovering above Nadra now, her knees braced on either side of Nadra's waist.
"I haven't had you yet," she whispered.
She slid down slowly—hips grinding, letting Nadra feel every wet inch of her heat before positioning herself properly. Nadra's eyes widened.
Samantha rocked against her. Not just with rhythm. With need. With violence made tender.
Their bodies slapped together quietly, sweat gathering between their stomachs. Samantha's movements grew erratic—one hand gripping the bedpost, the other flat against Nadra's chest, feeling her heartbeat pulse beneath her ribs.
"I want to fuck you until the rules disappear," Samantha said.
Nadra pulled her in, pressed her lips against Samantha's ear.
"Then let them."
After, Samantha lay still. Nadra traced her collarbone with sleepy fingers.
"I've never felt like this before," she murmured.
Samantha didn't speak.
She just held Nadra close, mouth at her temple, breath hitching behind the guilt she wouldn't name.
Before sunrise, Nadra slipped down the hallway like a secret.
Samantha sat in the quiet, hands folded, the air heavy with sweat and lingering heat.
She didn't sleep.