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“Enough, Yara!” she barks. She sighs loudly, but when she speaks again, her tone has been reset to pleasant. “Tell me more about your trip so far. Did you like Manaus?”
I roll my eyes. This is what my mother does when she’s finished talking about something: she changes the subject definitively. If I press the issue of my father and grandmother, she’ll tell me an imaginary pot roast is burning, and hang up.
So, I tell her about my hotel in Manaus and describe the boat to her. I make her laugh talking about the hot, rude bartender and strange food. But when we say good-bye, I feel unsatisfied, like the only person in the world who has the answers I want isn’t interested in sharing them, and I have no idea why.
***
Iam pleased to saythat, per Harvey’s prediction, the ship’s chef redeems himself on the second night. After a delicious dinner of rack of lamb with asparagus risotto, followed by dulce de leche cannolis, I head upstairs to the top-deck lounge. Because most of the guests headed back to their cabins to freshen up after dinner, I have the place mostly to myself and it’s heaven.
A pianist is playing soft samba music and votive candles flicker on every chrome and glass surface, casting fanciful shadows on the dark glass of the windows. It’s warm and inviting, and I sigh with satisfaction as I sink into a deep, leather club chair near a window. It’s pitch-black outside, except for dim lights here and there on the shore. In about an hour, a naturalist will be giving a lecture in this lounge, but until then, I think I’ll have a drink or two and relax.
“Still mad at me?”
I look up at Rio and something deep inside of me clenches. It feels good and confusing and very inconvenient, but I can’t deny it’s there, this simmering attraction he has zero interest in pursuing.
“No,” I say, my voice soft. He’s lean, tan and beautiful, his hair a black, glossy tumble and his eyelashes too long for words. I cross my legs and squeeze. I haven’t had sex in months. I’m starved for it, and he’s a ten-course meal. “I’m not.”
“I’m glad.” He sits on the arm of the chair across from me and grins. “I saw you feeding the dolphins this morning.”
“I loved them,” I admit.
“Loved?” he asks, his smile widening. “Loved the—what did you call them?—masochisticdolphins?”
“Misogynist.”
“And yet, you loved them?” he teases.
“Mm-hm,” I hum, leaning my chin on my hand and feeling dreamy. “I fell in love with them. Instantly. I get it now, how they could effortlessly seduce someone, because they seduced me. And I didn’t protest. I was lost before I realized I was gone.”
His pupils have dilated while I’ve been talking, and they stare into mine, focused and predatory; teeming with emotion, barely restrained. I wonder what it would take to push him over the edge; to force him to abandon that careful self-control. I imagine him grabbing me in his arms, turning me around and shoving me against these dark windows; I can almost feel my flushed cheek against the cool glass as he rips my panties aside, jerks his shorts over his hips and thrusts into me from behind. His flat, toned stomach would be hot against my soft, round ass, his fingers would dig into the tender skin of my hips as he held me fast.
I gulp softly, my nipples hardening, beading against the flimsy silk of my dress. Still sitting across from me, his black eyes widen, as though he can read my mind.
But then, suddenly, he clears his throat, averting his gaze.
“Can I get you a drink, Miss Marino?”
Back to business.
I take a deep breath and exhale on a wistful sigh.
“Sure,” I say, with a small shrug of defeat. “Something Brazilian. Something...pink.”
“A Pink Caipirinha?” he asks.
“Why not?”
“You know what it is?”
“Nope. Do you add a little grenadine to it?”
He shakes his head. “I use pink grapefruit instead of limes and add a little crushed strawberry.”
“That soundsdelicious,” I say, licking my lips.
His nostrils flair as he gives me a curt nod and heads back to the bar.
I want to break you, I think, watching him go.
