“I hurt you,querida?”
“No.” I pause. “Yes, maybe a little. In the best possible way,” I say, reaching for his cheeks. “It was ... good.”
His eyes narrow and he raises an eyebrow.
“Reallygood,” I amend, grinning at him, and maybe a little shy, despite the fact that he’s still lodged deeply inside of me.
“Evenreally goodmeans there’s room for improvement,” he says, kissing the tip of my nose before rolling to my side. “What you say? Um ... practice makes the perfect, yes?”
My breath catches at the notion that he could improve on the best sex I ever had. But who am I to keep him from trying?
“Midnight?” I ask, marveling at the sight of his muscular back as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for his shorts.
He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark. “Sem questionar.”
“Which means...?”
“Without question,querida.”
He leans down to kiss me hard and fast—the gesture full of possession—then picks up his shirt from the floor and slips out of my room.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper, pulling the comforter over my bare body and smiling up at the ceiling. There’s a damp spot from our lovemaking under my left hip, but I don’t mind. It makes me feel sexy despite the soft ache between my legs. I’m going to need a warm bath and some food before Rio’s promised “round two.”
As my feet land on the floor, my toe feels something hard, and I lean down to see the edge of Rio’s wallet peeking out from under the bed. It must have fallen from his back pockets when we wereundressingripping each other’s clothes off.
I shrug into my bath robe, grab his wallet, and head out my door, hoping to catch him. Peeking down the hallway, I spy him at the end of the corridor. He has his back to me, and I tiptoe toward him, realizing, belatedly, that he’s talking on the phone.
“...no, no, minha querida,” he whispers. A pause.“Por favor.”
I freeze.
“Por favor, meu amor. Ouço.”
Queridaandmeu amor?I know these words. I may not speak Portuguese, but these are terms of endearment that my father used every day of his life.
No, no, sweetheart...please, my love...
My eyes blink away sudden, hot tears as my feet start moving backward. Opening the still-cracked door, I back into my stateroom on jelly legs and close the door behind me. I lean against it, closing my eyes as tears scorch my cheeks. Taking a deep and shuddering breath doesn’t help. My room still smells of him—of both of us—but he’s already on the phone with another woman.
“Stupid Yara,” I mutter. “Stupid, ridiculous, desperate woman.”
It’s not that I expected a commitment, but couldn’t he have waited a whole five minutes before calling...her?
Her. He has a girlfriend... or worse, a wife.
I plunk down on the bed feeling stupider with every passing second.
Of course he has a girlfriend or wife. He’s gorgeous. And he just happens to meet a new crop of women every week with whom he can cheat.
I’m not a...a whore.
What a crock of shit.
My fingers fist in the still-warm sheets as my tears stop falling.
I’m angry.
I’m furious.