I dipped my fingers under her chin and tried to draw her upward.
She tilted her head back and looked up at me. “I want to finish,” she said.
I stooped, placed my hands on her upper ribs, and raised her to her feet. I slipped one arm behind her neck and the other under her ass, stepped forward, and scooped her up. She laughed in surprise and clasped her arms around my neck.
“There’s something I want to finish,” I told her.
The living room was attached to a small kitchen and an only slightly larger bedroom. I headed toward the latter. I was dimly aware of my hard-on swaying before me like some absurd blind man’s cane as I walked.
There was a futon on the floor just inside the bedroom doorway. I stepped onto it and gently set her down on her back. She slipped her arms from around my neck, her palms brushing past my ears and face. I reached down with both hands and eased the thong over the flat of her pelvis. She raised her hips and the garment moved over the curve of her ass. I pulled it past her ankles and tossed it aside.
I put my hands on the futon on either side of her and kissed her throat, her breasts, her belly. I made my way to the creases of her thighs. She grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of my head and pulled hard enough to make it hurt, but I made her wait longer before I gave her what she wanted.
When I did, she exhaled sharply and tightened her grip on my hair. I drew my knees up and took her ass in both hands, raising it off the futon. I heard her say, “Isso, isso, continua,” felt her other hand move to the back of my neck. I glanced up. Her stomach muscles were clenched tight, her breasts trembling slightly from the action of my head and hands.
I took my time with her. She tasted clean and salty and sweet. Her fingers ran through my hair, sometimes grabbing, sometimes pulling, in time to the way I was touching her. I didn’t rush it, even when the pressure of her hands urged me faster.
I heard her say, “Isso,” again, over and over. Her legs rose behind me and tightened across my ears, and her voice was suddenly far away, reaching me as though from underwater. Her legs tensed further, her knuckles dug into my scalp. Then her body slowly unwound and sound came back into the room.
I lowered her back to the futon and looked at her. The gray light of the room had grown a shade brighter. It picked up the green in her eyes, and without thinking, I said, “You’re beautiful.”
She reached up and took my face in her hands. “Agora, venha aqui,” she said in Portuguese. Come here.
I went to her. She reached down for me but I found my own way in.
I slid my hands under her arms and around to her face. I dipped my head forward and closed my eyes, the way I had once been taught to pray. I felt her lips against my face, mouthing silent words.
A minute went by, maybe two. Our movement together, back and forth, gradually slowed, like waves advancing and receding on a beach. More than that and I knew I was done.
She arched her head up to mine and the kiss quickened. I felt a sensation, like purring or a low growl, across her lips and tongue.
“Agora, mete tudo,” she said, her mouth moving against mine. Now, everything now.
She pushed against me, not holding anything back. I held her face in my hands and kissed her harder. She raised her knees and I felt her thighs and ankles sliding against my hips. We moved faster. She locked her legs around my back. I heard her moan something in Portuguese. My back arched and my toes dug into the futon, and I let myself go with a long kussouu that sounded as much like pain as pleasure.
The strength flowed out of my body and I felt suddenly heavy. I lay down on the futon beside her, facing her, my hand resting lightly on her belly.
“Isso, foi otimo,” she said, turning her head to me. That was delicious.
I smiled. “Otimo,” I repeated. My limbs felt jellified.
She covered my hand with hers and squeezed my fingers. We were quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Can I ask you something?”
I looked at her. “Sure.”
“Why were you so reluctant, at first? I could tell you wanted to. And you knew I wanted to.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, flirting with sleep. “Maybe I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’m the one who should have been afraid. When you said you had something you wanted to finish, I half thought you were going to try to spank me again.”
I smiled, my eyes still closed. “I would have, if you’d deserved it.”
“I would have made you sorry.”
“You didn’t. You made me happy.”
I heard her laugh. “Good. You still haven’t told me what you were afraid of.”
I thought for a moment. Drowsiness was settling on me like a blanket.
“Of getting involved. Like you said, I haven’t been with someone for a long time.”
She laughed again. “How can we be involved? I don’t even know who you are.”
With an effort, I opened my eyes. I looked at her. “You know better than most,” I said.
“Maybe that’s what scares you,” she replied.
If I stayed any longer I would fall asleep. I sat up and ran a hand over my face.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I know you have to go.”
She was right, of course. “Yeah?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She paused. Then: “I’d like to see you again. But not at the club.”
“That makes sense,” I said, my mind having defaulted to its usual security setting. She furrowed her brow at my response. I saw my mistake, smiled, and tried to correct. “After tonight, I don’t think I could respect that ‘no below the waist’ rule, anyway.” She laughed at that, but the laughter wasn’t entirely comfortable.
I used the bathroom, then made my way back to the foyer, where I pulled on my still-wet clothes. They were cold and clinging.
She came over as I was lacing my shoes. She had combed her hair back and was wearing a dark flannel robe. She looked at me for a long moment.
“I’ll try to help you,” she said.
I told her the truth. “I don’t know how much you can really do.”
“I don’t either. But I want to try. I don’t want… I don’t want to wind up someplace where I can’t find my way back.”
I nodded. “That’s a good reason.”
She reached into a pocket of the robe and pulled out a piece of paper. She extended her arm to hand it to me, and I noticed the diamond bracelet again. I reached out and took her wrist, softly.
“A gift?” I asked, curious.
She shook her head slowly. “It was my mother’s,” she said.
I took the paper and saw that she had written a phone number on it. I put it in my pocket.
I gave her my pager number. I wanted her to have a way to contact me if something came up at the club.
I didn’t say, “I’ll call you.” I didn’t hug her because of the wet clothes. Just a quick kiss. Then I turned and left.
I made my way quietly down the hallway to the stairwell. I could tell she thought she wasn’t going to see me again. I had to admit that she might be right. The knowledge was as damp and dispiriting as my sodden clothes.
I came to the first floor and looked out at the entranceway to the building. For a second I pictured the way she had hugged me here. It already seemed like a long time ago. I felt an unpleasant mixture of gratitude and longing, streaked with guilt and regret.
And in a flash of insight, cutting with cold clarity through the fog of my fatigue, I realized what I hadn’t been able to articulate earlier, not even to myself, when she’d asked me what I was afraid of.
It had been this, the moment after, when I would come face-to-face with knowing that it would all end badly, if not this morning, then the next one. Or the one after that.
I used the rear entrance, where there was no camera. It was still raining when I got outside. The day’s first light was gray and feeble. I walked in my wet shoes until I found a cab, then made my way back to the hotel.