Chapter 1: The Bus to the Wedding
The bus groaned on its suspension, a metal beast sighing as it leaned into another curve. The air inside was thick—steam from someone’s thermos of jasmine tea, the greasy, sweet scent of fried bananas from a vendor at the last stop, and the damp wool smell of too many bodies pressed into too small a space. Neon from street-side pho shops bled across the window in liquid streaks of gold and green, painting Duc’s profile in fleeting light before plunging him back into shadow.
Thu shifted, her bare thigh pressing firmly against the rough denim of his jeans. A calculated accident. The shared blanket over their laps was a flimsy barrier, a polite fiction.
The bus hit a pothole. The whole cabin lurched. A collective gasp, then laughter. Her shoulder jammed into his bicep. She didn’t pull away.
“Sorry,” she murmured, not looking at him.
“It’s crowded,” he said, his voice a low rumble under the diesel whine. His arm, resting on the seatback behind her, didn’t move.
They hadn’t exchanged many words. Just the necessary ones at the depot. Is this seat taken? Heading to the wedding in Vinh? Me too. A shared destination, a six-hour overnight journey. That was all. But the silence since had been a different kind of conversation. She’d caught him watching her as she scrolled through her phone, the glow illuminating the secret curve of a smile she bit back. He’d watched her pull a sweater from her bag, the hitch of her shirt revealing a sliver of skin at her waist.
Now, under the blanket’s checked wool, his pinky finger brushed the outside of her knee.
She stared straight ahead, at the headrest of the seat in front of her. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. She let her leg relax further into his.
His touch was deliberate. Not a question, but a statement. The pad of his finger traced a slow line from her knee up the slope of her thigh. The callouses on his skin—a doctor’s hands, she’d noted earlier, clean but not soft—caught on the fine hairs of her leg. A shiver ran through her, hot and immediate. She breathed in, held it.
The bus roared into a tunnel. The world outside vanished, replaced by the frantic reflection of the interior lights: her own dark eyes wide, his head tilted down as he watched his own hand under the blanket. The noise of the engine echoed, a primal growl that vibrated up through the soles of her feet.
His whole hand settled on her thigh, heavy and warm. His thumb began to move in small, slow circles.
She finally turned her head. His face was inches away. In the erratic light, she saw the sharp line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes. No smile. This wasn’t charming banter. This was something stripped bare.
“You’re very forward,” she whispered. Her voice sounded foreign to her, breathy.
“You’re not stopping me,” he whispered back. His thumb pressed deeper into her muscle.
She swallowed. The ache between her legs was a sudden, urgent pulse. She’d wanted this from the moment she’d boarded, this nameless, friction-filled escape. A story with no past and no future, just a dark highway and hands that didn’t know her.
She parted her knees, just a fraction.
He understood. His hand slid higher, his fingers curling around the inside of her thigh. The roughness of his skin against that tender expanse was almost too much. She let out a shaky breath, fogging the cool window.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his mouth so close his breath whispered against her temple.
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
His fingers found the hem of her shorts, dipped beneath it. He paused there, on the threshold. A question, finally.
She answered by curling her hand over his wrist, not to pull him away, but to feel the hammer of his pulse. She guided him under the fabric.
The first direct touch stole the air from her lungs. Her head fell back slightly against the seat. The bus, the noise, the other passengers—it all melted into a distant hum. There was only the heat of his palm branding her skin through the thin cotton of her underwear, the startling intimacy of his stillness amidst the vehicle’s violent motion.
He watched her face, studying every flicker of reaction. “You’re quiet.”
“So are you.”
“I’m paying attention.”
He moved his hand. The pressure was exquisite, blunt and perfect through the fabric. She pressed into his touch, a sharp, involuntary motion. A soft sound escaped her, lost in the engine’s roar.
His control was a live wire. She could feel it in the tension of his forearm under her grip, in the rigid set of his shoulders. He was letting her set the pace, even as his own desire sang in the tight line of his jaw.
They passed under another light. For a second, his face was clear. She saw the hunger there, raw and untethered. It mirrored her own. This wasn't tenderness. It was recognition.
Not guilt, not doubt—just a knowledge as bright and sudden as the neon that had strobed across his face. After the wedding, after the polite congratulations, after the whiskey-induced laughter that dissolved into the humid night like sugar in rain, Duc had found Thu’s wrist in the crush of the hotel foyer. He tugged her into the elevator before the doors could close, before the smiles could curdle into something unreadable.
The lift groaned upward, metal fingers counting floors. Thu laughed, low and unsteady, her dark eyes reflecting the ascending numbers. She didn’t resist. Her fingers threaded through the front of his shirt, dragging him closer as the doors whispered shut. He didn’t let go of her wrist. His grip was firm, possessive—no room for retreat.
The hallway outside their room was carpeted in a deep red that ate sound, swallowing their steps whole. A single sconce flickered, casting long shadows.
Her thigh clenched against his palm as if she could trap the heat of him there forever. The elevator halted with a soft chime. Thu’s fingers twisted in his shirt, nails scraping fabric, demanding silence. His free hand found the back of her neck, his grip possessive. The door slid open on a hush of empty carpet and the distant trickle of a minibar fridge humming like a sleepy animal. They didn’t wait for the corridor to clear—stepped out anyway, bodies fused, breath mingling in the stale hotel air.
Thick maroon carpet swallowed their footsteps, muffling any sound that might betray them. Thu’s back hit the wall outside room 107 before the door latch even clicked. Duc’s forehead pressed against hers, his fingers splayed possessively across her waist, thumb digging into the soft flesh just above her hipbone. The hallway smelled of bleach and old money.
Thu’s heels clicked once against the carpet before Duc spun her, pressing her shoulders into the doorframe. The keycard slipped from nerveless fingers, forgotten. The elevator dinged somewhere behind them, a ghostly reminder of the world outside.
Inside the room, the ceiling-to-floor window framed the Saigon skyline like a live painting—buildings aglow in the humid night, streetlights weaving gold rivers below. The glass was cool against Thu’s flushed cheek as Duc’s body pinned her there, his chest flush against her back. His breath was hot against her ear, the only warmth in the sterile air.
“Still quiet?” His voice was rough, edged with something dangerous.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her hands flattened against the glass, fingers splaying as his body aligned with hers. The heat of him radiated through the thin fabric of her dress, branding her skin even before his touch arrived.
His fingers were rough, impatient—not like the careful doctor’s hands she’d glimpsed earlier, but like a man who’d spent too long pretending to be polite.
His fingers tore her panties aside.
The lace fabric gave way with a sharp ripping sound that was swallowed by the humid night air and the distant bass of a street wedding. The cool glass pressed into her palms as her knees nearly gave out. His free hand clamped onto her thigh, yanking her leg back so her knee bent against the doorframe, opening her. The dress rode up her hips, baring her to the neon glow of Hanoi’s skyline outside. His breath scorched the side of her neck, hot and uneven.
“You like that?” His voice was a growl, low and filthy. “Like being taken?”
Her answer was a gasp as his fingers finally made contact—no more teasing, no more waiting.
The glass fogged beneath their ragged breaths, a blanket of condensation spreading where their foreheads pressed together, where her moans clung to the pane. The Saigon skyline blurred into streaks of gold and crimson, the city’s pulse muted by the thick glass between them and the world outside.
Thu’s nails scraped the condensation, drawing half-moons into the mist. Her back arched violently as Duc’s fingers pushed inside without warning—wet, rough, possessive. The condom’s latex cracked against her skin as he sheathed himself behind her, his hips grinding against the curve of her ass, the rough denim of his jeans abrading the inside of her thighs. The room smelled of hotel air conditioning and sweat, of the damp heat of her own arousal slicking between her legs.
Duc didn’t hesitate—his fingers left her, his hands gripping her hips instead, yanking her back against him with brutal force. The glass behind her shattered against the doorframe, but she didn’t care. His cock was thick and hot against her ass, the head pressing against her entrance with a wet, obscene sound.
“You wanted this,” he growled in her ear, his breath hot and ragged. His fingers dug into her waist, bruising, as he positioned himself. “You wanted me to take you right here, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The glass was cold against her back, the shards sharp and jagged, but she didn’t move. Her fingers curled into the carpet, her nails biting into the thick red fibers as Duc’s cock slid through her folds, slick with her own need. The head pressed against her entrance, the stretch of it making her gasp.
Then, his teeth sank into her shoulder—hard. A shock of pain, a jolt of pleasure. She cried out, her body tensing, nails digging into the carpet. Duc’s hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he held her in place. He didn’t move, not yet, letting her feel the sting, the heat of his breath on her skin.
She moaned as his cock stretched her, the sensation of being filled so completely stealing her breath. Her body trembled, her fingers clawing at the carpet, the red fibers biting into her skin. Duc’s grip on her hips was unyielding, his fingers digging into her flesh, marking her. She could feel the pulse of his own desire, hot and hard against her ass, his breath ragged against her neck.