Chapter 24 Part 1

Smoking is bad for health, but it had honed Wen Zenian’s exceptionally unique voice.

The moment she spoke, it blended seamlessly with the night, like a thin veil of mist diffusing into the shadows. There lurked the most hidden desires and cravings of the human heart—untouchable, yet once brushed against, they scattered uncontrollably in all directions.

A dream so lushly enchanting always stirred a flicker of fear in the heart, for who knew when one might awaken from it.

Meng Ning pinched Wen Zenian’s delicate chin, her thumb gently rubbing it. But she wasn’t in any hurry to kiss her. Instead, she shifted her calf slightly.

Wen Zenian’s gaze drifted downward to see Meng Ning nudging off her shoes and socks.

The king-size bed in the Administrative Suite cradled them both. Meng Ning propped herself up on her elbows, sunk into the soft down pillows, trapping Wen Zenian within her embrace—like caging a beautiful dream to keep it from slipping away. Perhaps then it wouldn’t wake so easily.

Wen Zenian closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. The breath carried a faint hint of alcohol, warm and moist.

Meng Ning leaned down. What drew her in wasn’t Wen Zenian’s thin lips, but the slender neck that needed no updo to accentuate its grace. Long harbored fantasies fueled her urgency, and her kisses lacked any real gentleness.

In response, Wen Zenian closed her eyes with a sigh-like murmur: “Meng Ning.”

Meng Ning’s shoulders trembled.

She needed only for Wen Zenian to say her name in that tone: “Meng Ning.”

The kisses trailed upward, reaching behind her ear. Perhaps the greed had taken root the moment she’d saved that stolen photo of Wen Zenian leaning against the wall, one hand lightly touching her earring. Nestled against Wen Zenian’s ear, she whispered, “So bitter.”

Wen Zenian responded as if they were chatting casually, though her voice quivered faintly: “What flavor?”

“Bitter almond.”

Wen Zenian’s perfume smelled of tuberose, but when tasted on the tongue, it was like bitter almond.

She was still in her Lifesaving Team uniform, the sea-mist color pressed against Wen Zenian’s mermaid-like evening gown. Her fingers slipped to the back of Wen Zenian’s neck, grasping the halter tie.

The instant of unwrapping the gift felt like a Friday night, a moment one longed to freeze forever.

She paused, then applied gentle pressure with her fingertips, slowly drawing the ribbon free.

Then came regret. The gift’s perfection made any second of hesitation feel like extravagant waste. Yet she didn’t dare move rashly, simply staring in awe.

Wen Zenian lifted her eyelids, meeting Meng Ning’s gaze. With a seemingly helpless sigh, she pressed one hand to the back of Meng Ning’s neck and pulled her down.

Once she truly began, Wen Zenian tried to push her away. But Meng Ning knew that instinctive reaction wasn’t her true intent. She pinned Wen Zenian’s slender white wrist to the down pillow.

Wen Zenian called her name: “Meng Ning.”

Again: “Meng Ning…”

A reminder: “Go wash your hands.”

Meng Ning lifted her head. The words were hard to say, but she had to:

Because—”I don’t know how.”

Wen Zenian opened her eyes in disbelief, glancing at her. For the first time, her usual composed expression cracked into genuine surprise.

Typically, everyone learned the mechanics of intimacy as puberty brought their secondary sexual characteristics to the fore.

But Meng Ning was different. Meng Ning had deliberately avoided it all.

So she truly didn’t know.

Wen Zenian pushed her away and sat up, straddling her curled legs, a trace of bewildered embarrassment in her posture.

Wen Zenian retied the halter ribbon and slid off the bed. Meng Ning moved to follow, but Wen Zenian turned back, pointing a finger at her vaguely: “Sit. Don’t move.”

A touch imperious.

Then came the sound of running water—Wen Zenian washing her hands, no doubt.

Wen Zenian returned and sat on the edge of the bed, pressing down one of Meng Ning’s legs. She hooked her hand behind Meng Ning’s neck and kissed her. A soft rustle followed as Meng Ning realized Wen Zenian was tugging at her uniform zipper.

She started to say something, but Wen Zenian caught her tongue halfway: “Shh.”

Wen Zenian’s kisses and movements were gentle. Resist, and one discovered the subtle dominance beneath.

But when Wen Zenian stripped away all her defenses and reached to remove the Buddha beads looped around her wrist, she clamped her hand over them tightly: “No.”

She even took the initiative to kiss Wen Zenian, nipping her slightly feverish tongue tip, drawing a sharp “Hiss” from her.

Wen Zenian curved her hand around Meng Ning’s waist: “You’re shaking.”

“Mm.”

“Want to keep going?”

“Mm.” But she asked: “Can you take off the evening gown?”

Wen Zenian replied: “No.”

Wen Zenian in her evening gown and full makeup exuded even greater dominance. That flawless, seamless mask repeatedly reminded one how utterly she’d abandoned all restraint, surrendering beneath her touch.

Then she narrowed her eyes slightly, watching coolly as if from the sidelines. Only a near-pathological flush at the corners betrayed the turmoil surging within her.

Meng Ning gripped her pale wrist and whispered that it hurt. She paused momentarily and asked: “Want to keep going?”

Her own breathing was unsteady, yet she leaned down, gazing at Meng Ning with apparent calm.

Meng Ning nodded.

Wen Zenian seemed to offer her many choices, but from the moment Meng Ning had removed that small clip from her hair, choice had ceased to exist.

Who, having tasted a beautiful dream, would willingly return to reality? Only a dreamlike Wen Zenian could slake her insatiable desires.

As a beach lifeguard, Meng Ning had countless times reminded others: “Breathe. Remember to breathe.”

Now Wen Zenian stroked her forehead hair, murmuring during her instinctive held breath: “Breathe, Meng Ning. Remember to breathe.”

Wen Zenian carried the scent of alcohol on her. After it was over and she’d helped clean Meng Ning up, she collapsed onto the soft down bed beside her, her splayed skirt resembling an inky black flower.

The flush on her face had faded somewhat, lingering now like a faint mist around her temples, refusing to dissipate entirely.

She raised one arm over her forehead, eyes closed, her breathing deep and heavy.

Meng Ning glanced at her in this state and said: “That must have been tough.”

Without opening her eyes, Wen Zenian smiled with closed lids: “Do you even know what you’re saying, Meng Ning?”

Meng Ning truly didn’t know what to say.

She lacked experience, hadn’t even watched any related films.

In her silence, Wen Zenian turned toward her, pressing against one curled arm pillowed on the down cushion. The only disheveled part of her was her tousled raven hair.

Earlier, as she’d leaned down to kiss, those strands had brushed over, tickling lightly.

And her shoulder.

A bite mark, faintly traced with blood, stood out on her snow-white skin like some exotic adornment—stunning in its beauty, heart-shaking.

Earlier, Meng Ning had asked her to continue, but the pain was real. She’d said: “You can bite me.”

Offering up her supple shoulder, Meng Ning had sunk her teeth in.

In that moment, control was elusive. She hurt Meng Ning, and Meng Ning hurt her. Supreme pleasure always came entwined with eternal pain.

Yet Wen Zenian seemed unconcerned. She looked at Meng Ning for a moment while Meng Ning lay staring at the ceiling. One hand rested on Meng Ning’s slender waist: “Tired?”

Meng Ning nodded.

“Then let’s sleep a bit,” Wen Zenian said.

Meng Ning had no idea what time it was. Outside the bedroom window, the sky was a gorgeous deep purple, as if the night—and the dream—stretched on endlessly, dawn far off. Or perhaps it was the crimson-purple curtains playing tricks, altering the hue of the sky.

Here, everything felt so dreamlike; the boundaries of time and space blurred.

Wen Zenian murmured lazily: “Lights out.”

Her voice carried a slight rasp.

The bedside lamp switched off at her voice command, leaving only the moon and stars gleaming outside. Meng Ning knew it was the C Hotel’s voice-activated system, of course. But spoken in that tone, it made one half-believe Wen Zenian truly wielded magic.

In her domain, she was the sole dream weaver, conjuring winds, flowers, rains, and dews at will—all to serve the illusions she crafted.

Meng Ning wondered how one escaped such utter immersion in her dreams. Compared to that, reality would seem pallidly unbearable.

The hand on her waist held a gentle warmth, like solace after their fervent clash. Yet her cold, frowning expression was equally captivating, tempting one to surrender resistance and become her devoted follower.

Meng Ning closed her eyes, listening to Wen Zenian’s alcohol-tinged breaths grow heavier.

Then she gently lifted that hand away, pausing to confirm she hadn’t woken her, before quietly slipping out of bed.

Meng Ning wasn’t sleepy at all. She simply didn’t know how to leave with both of them awake.

She dressed back in her uniform, then realized the hair tie had come loose during their fervor and was lost somewhere on the bed—no clue where.

She ran her fingers through her hair, grabbed her phone, and tapped the screen. It was four in the morning.

The deepest hour of night.

She slipped out of Wen Zenian’s Administrative Suite and took the staff elevator down.

She hurried along the gravel path linking the hotel to the dorms. This was probably her first time wandering outside the C Hotel dorms with her hair down, all for a missing hair tie.

Back in the dorm, Qi Xiao— who’d also drunk that night—was sleeping soundly.

Meng Ning showered, the sensations feeling subtly strange.

When she finally lay down, exhaustion overtook her, and she sank into deep sleep almost instantly.

Her rest lasted less than two hours, yet it was the deepest sleep she’d had since stopping the sleeping pills.

The alarm jolted her awake with unusual reluctance. She roused Qi Xiao: “Get up. We’re going to be late.”

Qi Xiao folded her pillow over her head: “Who the hell started this stupid tradition of early training the morning after a team dinner!”

They rushed to the beach.

The finish line was the starting point. Meng Ning bolted toward it first, spotting Wen Zenian and the captain standing there from afar. The captain seemed to be reporting something.

Meng Ning slowed her pace. A male teammate quickly overtook her, laughing: “What’s up, Meng Sis? Gonna let me win?”

Meng Ning smiled and dropped into a walk, heading to the endpoint.

As a gust of sea wind lifted Wen Zenian’s stray hairs—which she tucked behind her ear—she seemed to glance at Meng Ning. Or perhaps not.

Tall as she was, she stood at the edge of the front row during lineup, head slightly bowed.

Until Wen Zenian called: “Meng Ning.”

She startled and looked up.

Wen Zenian gave her a shallow nod: “Morning, Meng Ning.”

Meng Ning curled her fingers: “Morning, Gwyneth.”

Then Wen Zenian turned to the male teammate: “Morning, Billy.”

Evenhanded as dew.

The only indulgence, perhaps, was not using Meng Ning’s English name. But that was easily explained—no need to mention prior acquaintance or familiarity with the Chinese name. A simple “I like how it sounds” would suffice, unquestioned by all.

Soon, teammates crossed the line one by one and fell into formation.