"I also would like to point out that I'm not as emotionally fragile or on edge as I was even a few weeks ago."
He nods again. "I have noticed."
"So, I just…" I blow out a breath. "Be real with me. I feel like you've been…I don't know, holding your breath, sort of, fora while. With us. Giving me the time and space to work through things. Finding a new…equilibrium." It took a moment to dredge up the correct English word.
"Have you?" he asks. "Found a new equilibrium?"
I nod. "Yes, I think so. Knowing that the club is opening tomorrow, that helps. It means we're getting back to normal, or—or maybe a new normal is more correct to say. Regardless, it feels good to know we can resume operating the club." I lead him to my bedroom, and start pulling my clothes from the closet and draping them onto the bed. "What will you do now, Ren?"
He shrugs. "I've been considering my options."
"And?"
"I haven't decided yet. I don't think the Club is the right fit for me, long-term, work-wise. I hope you understand that."
I collect an armload of clothes and stack them with the rest on the bed. "Of course, Ren. The club is my home, my career. I love it here. I like the work. I like watching the customers. I like the challenge of running such a complicated business. But it doesn’t have to be your job. I just hope you don't decide you have to go back to Brazil." I turn away from him and hurry back into the closet, scraping hangers together, studiously and determinedly not looking at him.
I have my arms around the load of clothes and I'm about to lift the hanger hooks off the bar when I feel his presence behind me. I go still, breath snagging in my lungs like a burning, bursting balloon. My skin pebbles all over, my nipples harden, and I involuntarily press my thighs together.
"Ren," I whisper.
"Mmmmmm," he hums in return, his nose pressing against the back of my neck, inhaling my scent. "Sophia, my beautiful, sexy, delicious darling."
"Delicious?" I echo, the word barely a breath.
"Mmmm-hmmm." I feel his fingers slide down the short, thick column of my braid, catch at the hair tie at the bottom. "Sweeter than honey. Every…last…inch of you." He punctuates each phrase with a soft, delicate kiss to the back of my neck, each one ripping a quiet gasp from my lips.
I clutch the clothing in trembling fingers. "Ren, I…I want…" I squeeze my eyes shut as desire ripples through me, at war with my long-ingrained habit of ignoring my desires, of suppressing my needs, of dousing my passions.
Ren sidles up close behind me, and his hips press against my backside, the thick hard ridge of his erection pressing between my ass cheeks, and his chest is at my back and his hands roam down my sides and come to rest low on my belly.
"Tell me what you want, my love, so I can give it to you." He tugs the hair tie off, and his fingers rake gently down through my hair, loosening the braid so my hair falls in kinked waves to brush my shoulders.
"It's hard to say it, Ren," I whisper.
"Try. Please. It's just you and me. And we have all the time and privacy in the world." He lifts the mass of my hair aside and kisses my nape, behind my left ear, behind my right, and each kiss pours jet fuel on the fire of desire burning inside me. "Tell me what you want, Sophia. Please."
"I want you to make me feel good," I say, the words so quiet I can barely hear myself.
"I can do that," he answers.
The closet we are in is large, an expansive walk-in with floor-to-ceiling racks for hangers, cubbies for purses, and shelves for shoes; I've used less than a third of it, as clothing and fashion have never been a priority for me. To our right is a full-length mirror. Ren pivots us away from the rack to face the mirror.
"Watch," he breathes. "Watch me make you feel good, my love. Don't look away."
He towers over me, his broad shoulders occluding the world behind him, his eyes holding mine in the reflection. Dressed in dark blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt, I look short and slender against his tall, broad, hard, bulky frame. His thick arms wrap around me like steel bands. I reach up and stroke my fingers down his biceps, barely breathing as I wait for him to make his move.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine, a small, eager grin curving his lips, and his beard, thick and unkempt from weeks of neglect, tickles and scratches my cheek. I scrape my fingers over his beard, along his jawline.
"I think I like this," I say, realizing belatedly that I'm speaking Portuguese. "The beard. Perhaps trimmed a bit and brushed, but…I like it longer."
His grin widens as he answers in the same language. "Then trimmed and brushed it shall be for you, sweetest one."
His fingers dance inward and downward from my diaphragm to the waist of my jeans, pausing at the button. He slips the button free. Pinches the tab of the zipper. Lowers it slowly, gradually, centimeter by centimeter, until my fly sags open, baring a wedge of my white cotton underwear.
His teeth snag my earlobe, and his breath huffs hot and noisy against my ear. A kiss to my cheekbone near my ear. Fingertips slip over my belly, dance beneath the elastic of my underwear; I suck in my belly, anticipating his touch where I want it most, where I need it most.
"Ren," I gasp, aching for him, for more, for the intimacy of his touch. "Please."
