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“Tonight. Your room. Midnight.”
A thrill rushes through me, making me throb so immediately and so urgently, it soaks my panties in a sharp, swift wave of desire. My voice is gravelly when I ask: “Is that a promise?”
He doesn’t look away as he nods at me. “Be ready.”
I’vebeenready, but he already knows that.
He takes my hand and pulls me behind him as we continue our walk up a little hill toward the hospital. I blink my eyes and gulp down some air, trying to clear my head. Midnight feels like a million years away. I try to distract myself with the task at hand.
“We... we, um, need to ask for Director Almeida or Dr. Lacerda.”
He grunts an answer, the sound savage, Neolithic.
My wet panties have inched between the folds of my clit and rub against the vibrating bud of my sex as he rushes us toward the hospital. I whimper softly because every step is both torture and pleasure.
Rio stops again, whipping around to face me.
“What did I say about making that sound?” he demands.
“But I—”
Before I can say anything else, his lips crash down on mine—angry and punishing, at first—but I reach for his face, cupping his cheeks tenderly, and he gentles his assault, our tongues tangling as his lips move hungrily over mine. His hands fist against my lower back, pushing me against his body, my belly into his erection, that strains against his shorts. My already-engorged clit pulses like crazy, beating with every pump of my heart and making me breathless with longing.
“Later,” he growls, pulling his face away from mine and grabbing my hand again. “Now, behave yourself.”
“You’re one to talk,” I chirp, trying to keep up with him.
“What does that mean?”
“Youkissedme!” I cry.
“Because you were begging for it.”
“I’m not the only one,” I clap back. I adopt what is probably a terrible Portuguese accent and say: “Tonight. Later.”
“I don’t sound like that,” he says, though a little self-deprecating smile appears on his lips.
“Yes,” I say, mimicking him, “you do, querida.”
“Querido,” he corrects me. “I’m a man, not a woman.” He clucks softly. “What kind of Brazilian are you, anyway?”
“A bad one, I guess,” I say. “My father never taught me how to be a good Brazilian.”
“Then you will learn,querida,” he tells me, squeezing my hand. “You will learn.”
