Brent gave her a strange look. She met his gaze with an unreadable set of opaque eyes.
“I… okay. In the same place?”
She smiled a little.
“That’s…” he licked his lips. His eyes involuntarily went to the rolling expanse of lawn below the balcony. “…huh.”
“Would you like to see it?”
His head jerked as he turned to her. “Excuse me?”
“The spot. I can see it from here. I’d like to show you, if you wish.”
“Why?”
She slid a few inches nearer. “Call it… closure,” she purred, putting a hand on his chest. He felt the heat from her skin and he shuddered.
“Okay. Yes.”
She took his hand and led him down the stairs, her hips swinging as she exaggerated their movement. He stared, sure she knew he would, and by the time they reached the spot, by the time he realized she was slipping from her dress he was almost helplessly, blindly lusting for her. As she unbuttoned the loose cotton shirt he wore he took her in his arms and lowered her to the ground.
“This spot?” he asked, voice catching in his throat. She stared up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled, the curve of her lips enticing enough that he kissed her then, unable to stop himself.
At last, when they lay panting and spent in the sun, he rolled over a little, and gazed at her. “Why? You and Toefler… you and Ossirian. You and I. Why here? Why me?”
She lay on her side, curled up and languid as a cat in a shaft of sunlight. She said, without moving her lips, “Dear boy… have you any regrets? Anything in your life you wish you had done that you have not?”
He half-shrugged. “I guess maybe. Everyone does, don’t they?”
She snuggled down a little, both hands under her cheek, prayer-fashion. “I do not. I regret nothing for I never miss an opportunity. Yield to temptation, Brent. It may not come around again.”
“Good advice.”
“Of course. It’s Brazilian. We know how fleeting our time in the sun can be. You’ll never find a people more willing to put off until tomorrow that which interferes with pleasure today.” She put a finger on his chest, traced it down, eyes following it. He watched her hand as it glided over his belly. He groaned when she grasped him. “Are you not ready to embrace the philosophy?”
“It’s growing on me.”
“No, dear boy,” she whispered as she pushed him back and swung a leg over him. She straightened up, the sun haloing around her hair as she arched and pressed against, pressed down, and sighed. “It’s growing on me.”
He wanted to chastise her for such a terrible play on words, but found his voice was quite gone as his hands found her breasts and she began to move over him.